


Thick of Thieves

by AeantizLKamenwati



Series: Fen'Harel Enansal [2]
Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bad Jokes, Death, Eventual relationship, Explicit Language, I'm terrible to my characters, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, In-game Dialogue, Lyrium marks, M/M, Magic, On Hiatus, Past Abuse, Past Drug Use, Past Rape/Non-con, Sarcasm, Spoilers, Tevinter, Thief Inquisitor, Trauma, unfortunately
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-04-10 21:51:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 40,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4409153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeantizLKamenwati/pseuds/AeantizLKamenwati
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing ever went according to Tarasyl's plans, which was why he never made any.</p><p>So when he was told to steal a document from the Left Hand, he didn't have a plan passed steal the document. But Fate did have a plan.</p><p>And Fate's plans always happened as they should...right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wrong Place

**Author's Note:**

> I was breaking into houses over in Solitude for a bedlam gig Devin gave me (Skyrim another one of my obsessions) and got the funny idea of making the Inquisitor a thief because who wants a goody-to-shoes as the savior of the world? Not this writer. So I did a random pick of race and BAM! we got Tarasyl'inan. And I'm a sucker for Dorian, so...yeah it's another Dorian romance *scratches head nervously*
> 
> I will tear the canon to shreds if I have to, just so you know. Also I'm a cussing machine in this, as well as a sarcastic ass.
> 
> I'll update when neither of the other stories are really working for me and I just need to be funny.

_“Mana…” Tarasyl’inan muttered loudly, “You want me to do what?” He had no need for their roundabout way of speaking here. This was a ‘safehouse’ if anywhere could be considered safe._

 _His ‘partner’ (there really was no such thing in his line of work) sighed to herself. She was an Orlesian elf who found work as an informant for someone named Briala. Tarasyl couldn’t care less for whoever Briala was, but Shivera usually had good info on the pompous shems of Orlais._

 _

“Go to the Conclave, steal the document, and return. What’s so hard about that?” She spoke with a thick accent, one rivalling even Tarasyl’s Dalish burr. Shivera rolled her golden eyes at him. “Or are you now claiming to be less than the best?” 

Tarasyl narrowed his own nearly white eyes at her. “I didn’t say anything like that…” He growled. “But seriously? The Conclave? Where nearly every Templar, Mage, Chantry Shem and their guards in Southern Thedas will be? That’s not a hit; that’s suicide.” 

Shivera looked at her nails like any noble ass would. “Yes, but think of it this way: more targets. You can keep whatever else your sticky forest-frolicking fingers can grab. We just need that document.” She laughed at her joke. Tarasyl bit back his elven curses, clenched his fists at his side to avoid reaching for his daggers. Flat ears… 

“And just how am I supposed to know which document? I don’t read.” Shivera got a prideful smirk at that. Like she was mocking him inside her head. He didn’t need to know the shemlen’s writing to hunt and to craft. And he still didn’t need it to steal anything, his craftsmen eye could tell the value of an item almost without thought. Or that is what he had everyone believe. 

“It’ll look very plain, or very ornate. It might be in a secret hiding place if I know Sister Nightingale. Just look for this symbol.” She held out piece of paper with a charcoal rubbing on it. He didn’t ask where she got the seal of the Divine. The fewer details you knew about such information the better. 

Tarasyl frowned while he took the paper. “So you want me to steal from the Left Hand of your Shemlen Divine?” If it were not for the fact that his stomach was aching for food, he would have told her to find another idiot. As it were though…He needed money to purchase supplies and he couldn’t rely on any clan taking him in. Winter was fast approaching and thus much of the game in the area had moved elsewhere. 

Then again Tarasyl may not have been a hunter, but he was particularly skilled at tracking, trapping, and could easily just follow the herds…He didn’t need to stick his neck into shemlen politics especially when he had a personal connection with the target. 

“You told me you wanted revenge on the shemlens, and you need to eat do you not? Do this and you’ll reap the benefits after Briala’s behind the throne. She promises to reclaim the Dales, is that not what your people want?” 

“You talk real pretty, flat ear, but I’ve learned to never trust a pretty mouth.” Tarasyl stated bluntly. From under her hood, Shivera smiled. This wasn’t his first big hit after all. If he wanted to survive in the Game, he had to learn how to play it. And rule number one: trust no one. 

Shivera chuckled. “Do you want to hit the shemlen hard or not?” 

Tarasyl’s stomach growled loudly as he ran his tongue over his teeth. As much as Tarasyl hated flat ears, he hated the shemlen more. He knew in the end he would say yes to this job, if only to get something to eat. At most he got to humiliate some shems. 

He sighed loudly. “Fine. I hope you’re going to cover my expenses to Ferelden, flat ear.” 

“Of course not. You’re the thief, figure it out.”

_

Tarasyl sighed to himself as he continued crafting a thick winter coat for himself. The fire crackled loudly near him, desperately trying to fight the chill of the Frostbacks away. He shivered, pulling his wool blanket tighter around himself. 

“Who the bleeding hell has a diplomatic meeting in these fucking mountains? In the wintertime?” He growled to the bear pelt. No one was around him of course. It was better that way; no one else to worry about. Not that any self-respecting Dalish would be seen with a Harellan. 

As those thoughts crossed his mind, he pricked his finger pad. Blood sprang to the surface as a sharp pain shot to his brain. 

“Fenedhis!” He yelled before sucking on the wound. His fingers were hot despite the chill. Areas of his skin were cracking, bleeding in the dry mountain air. His lips were chapped by the wind, his feet were so blistered by unfamiliar shemlen boots he could barely stand thinking of walking. 

“This has got to be hell.” He muttered inspecting his finger. He gave it a few shakes before resuming his sewing. Occasionally he’d take a bite of the last of bear meat he had charred near the fire. It sat on coals to keep it warm while water boiled in a teapot he’d stolen from some caravan days prior. He rather liked it. It was sturdy Ferelden wear with little dogs in the metalwork. He’d also gotten the boots since the further he went up the forsaken mountains the more snow and ice there was likely to be. 

Snapping him out of his thoughts, one of his traps rang a bell. His head snapped to the right, scanning the dark bushes for some predator. Carefully he put down the pelt. He slid one of his daggers out of its sheath and stood up. 

He narrowed his eyes, seeing moving shadows in the forest. His body automatically took a defensive posture. But for bandits…they are making a lot of noise…His eyebrows furrowed at the stumbling and crashing sounds coming from there. 

He readied to throw his dagger when: “Oh for fucks’ sake! The trees are doing this on purpose!” Someone called out loudly. Tarasyl narrowed his eyes even more. If these were bandits, they were shitty at their jobs. Still a lone elf was a dead elf, so he didn’t relax himself in the slightest. 

He listened as several voiced their complaints about the underbrush. He rolled his eyes. “Perhaps the forest is saying that visiting hours is over.” Slipped out of his mouth without warning. Just as his eyes widened, several Qunari stumbled into his little clearing. They all were large, horned, and…did he mention large? 

For a moment he was just stunned by how large they were, even the two females were big. Seriously? What did they feed them? Ogres? Dragons? Apparently it was something that was rich in protein that’s for sure. He had met several Qunari in his time, sure. But he never got over how large they were. He could almost feel a blush rising up his neck from looking at the very toned, very muscular, and very bare chests of a few of the men. 

_Don’t hit on the dragon-people, Tarasyl!_ He chastised himself. He quickly looked away before his mind could think of extremely dirty scenarios. As though the Creators smiled on his momentary chastity, one of the Qunari spoke up as they all blinked at him. 

“Well you don’t see one of those every day…” This one was a curled horned man with pink eyes and gray skin. Tarasyl snorted, relaxing his stance as they all held up their hands as if to say they came in peace. 

“What? A beautiful elf? Trust me we’re a copper a dozen.” He quipped. That got them smirking which was good. Smirking at his jokes meant he wasn’t likely to see just what Qunari eat. But it was clear from the way they were staring at his vallaslin, they had never seen a Dalish before. 

“You’re whatcha call it? Dalish?” One of the women spoke up. Her white hair was bound in a neat bun. He briefly wondered why one of her horns was broken. She then looked about the clearing with silver eyes. “Where’s the rest? I thought Dalish moved in packs?” 

His eyes narrowed out of reflex, “Clans. We move in Clans.” He corrected. “And I have none. You are what they call Qunari living outside of the…Whatever religion.” He played dumb. They snorted their chuckles. 

“Tal-Vashoth is what we’re called in the Qun. We prefer the Valo-Kas mercenaries,” The man who spoke first shrugged. "Name’s Adaar. This is Herah, Saare,” he pointed to the two females first to the broken horned one then the other one with red hair, “Ashaad One, Ashaad Two, and Ashaad Three. They’re the only ones that talk.” Adaar snickered. 

“Lovely names.” Tarasyl muttered sarcastically. “What brings you crashing to my clearing Adaar?” 

“My kith were hired as bodyguards for the Conclave; we were about to find a place to sleep for the night when we noticed your fire.” Adaar smiled. How the hell could Qunari smile? Tarasyl tilted his head like a dog, narrowing his eyes as if that’d make everything clearer. Adaar seemed to mistake his curiosity for confusion. “We thought to ourselves: hey look a fire, let’s see if we can’t nose our way to it on this night.” 

Tarasyl shook his head like he’d been splashed with cold water. “You want to…stay with me?” His voice squeaked from surprise. No one wanted to be near an elf, let alone a Dalish elf. Most thought he’d sooner cook them for dinner than make polite conversation. 

“It’s not like we’d be any inconvenience.” Saare grumbled with her arms crossed. Her horns appeared to be sawed off to their base. He briefly wondered why if she was Tal-Vashoth but she was still talking. “Sides it’s better to have more protection for you right?” 

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Ir abelas, but what are you implying? I can handle myself just fine without loud horned…people” He couldn’t quite think of an insult while it was fucking freezing. Indeed, the wind picked up and Tarasyl prayed his fire wouldn’t go out. 

“Not implying anything, elfy.” One of the Ashaads spoke up. His horns corkscrewed behind his black hair. “But having a larger group means easier fights.” 

“And more time asleep.” Adaar nodded to himself. “We got plenty of food, our own tents, and some Ferelden ale if you’re interested.” 

Tarasyl ran his tongue over his teeth, contemplating. They were a mercenary group, nothing worth stealing. But…he was likely to attract less hostile attention while in the company of these giants…Less hostile attention, the better his chances of surviving this. 

“Fine, stay if you want to.” And with that Tarasyl gracefully folded his legs to the ground and began sewing again. 

“So mind if we know your name?” Adaar asked after his ‘kith’ began to set up their own tents. 

Tarasyl looked up through his eyelashes, blowing the thick silvery bang that covered the right side of his face a little. With a loud sigh, “Tarasyl’inan ‘Harellan’ Mahariel, formerly of Clan Lavellan. Andran’atishan, Valo-Kas mercenaries.” 

“Formerly?” Herah spoke up. “You making tea?” She asked as she looked at the tea pot. 

“Boiling snow to drink. And yes formerly. I got exiled.” His voice had a note of finality to it that none wanted to question the specifics. Instead Herah chuckled to herself, even Saare snorted merrily. 

“Us too. Birds of a feather apparently do flock together.” 

***** 

So for the remainder of the trip, Tarasyl traveled with the Valo-Kas Qunari. They were…a lively bunch. Each night they’d tell stories to him about their many jobs throughout Orlais. Some were merely funny, such as the tale Adaar told about the donkey, while others were your typical mercenary stories. 

Still he found he had an odd pain in his chest, surrounded by these people. Sometimes he could pretend he was back with his Clan, listening to his clanmates tell stories about their many mishaps in the forest. Or listening to Hahren Virien tell the Old Stories. But those were dangerous thoughts. They brought with them homesickness, a disease Tarasyl could not fall prey to. He had chosen this path, to take back what the shemlen took. At first it was for himself, but then he wanted to make all the shemlen pay for everything they did. 

Never again. 

Those words echoed inside his heart whenever he thought about his Clan. If they branded him a traitor, that was fine. He would see this through to the end. Even if he could see no end sight. 

***** 

“So, Tarasyl, got a question for ya.” Adaar started as he was helping the elf put up a tent. He found it funny how small the elf was compared to his hulking form. It was like he was this little glass figure with paper for skin. But the elf would no doubt slit his throat for saying that aloud. 

“I’ll bite, what’s the question?” Tarasyl mumbled as he held the tent up as Adaar hammered in the spikes. The ground was frozen solid up here, and since they were what you’d call outsiders in this gathering of humans they were forced to take a less than satisfactory area for their camp. All around them fires burned with tents around them. The air was filled with smoke and the sounds of people talking. 

The Valo-Kas insisted Tarasyl stay with them as he was nearly beaten to death by some humans within an hour of separating from the Qunari. Granted the elf did say some pretty nasty things to them, but the humans did antagonize him. He was still pretty sore about that, but Saare had patched him up with only a split lip and a bruise to show for it. 

“Why do you always set up that wolf statue? Someone might steal it.” Adaar asked between pounds. Finally he managed to get the stake through. They moved onto the next. 

“It’s to ward away evil. And if someone steals it, I’ll make another.” He shrugged. It wouldn’t be the first time. And he had already thought of things he’d change about the figure. 

“Wait you made that thing?” Adaar stopped to stare bewildered at him. That statue, though as small as a pitcher, was quite stunning. It was rendered almost to perfection of the real thing. Tarasyl smirked his devilish smirk as he followed his eyes to the little statue facing away from the camp. 

“Yes, I did. I wasn’t our craftsmaster’s apprentice since before I got my vallaslin for nothing, you know.” 

Adaar looked to the little elf with a skeptical look. “You’re lying aren’t you?” 

“For once in our short time together, I am not lying.” He gave a brilliant smile that made his extremely pale orange eyes sparkle like little stars. The Qunari still eyed him suspiciously. The Dalish was an odd nut to crack. He was a shameless flirt, not just with other men but with the two women as well, but they all could tell he wasn’t serious. Mostly because he would attach ridiculous prices to having sex with him. 

And he hardly ever took any conversation serious. He’d find some way to make a joke out of it. Which was fine with the kith; it made the journey less awkward and odd. Still they were all certain he was lying through his teeth most of the time. Like why was he going to the Conclave? It was obvious he wasn’t a mercenary, and he had already said he was exiled from his clan. So why? But the elf dodged those questions like the Blight. 

“I don’t know whether I should believe that or not…” Adaar gave as he focused back on staking the tent. The elf only snickered to himself. 

***** 

Saare and Tarasyl chatted idly while they walked around the camps. First day of the peace talks and the kith had decided to have Saare sit today out. The Templars were even more on edge than normal, making the mages jumpier than usual. And a Qunari Saarebas would just add to the hostilities. 

So she was keeping an eye on the elf. Or he was keeping an eye on her. Or both. Either way you looked at, they were both captives. 

“So, what does Saare mean exactly?” Tarasyl asked as he walked backwards to look at her. She was a very stoic person, but he could get that. What he had seen of Saarebas in Par Vollen was…horrendous at best. Mouths sewn shut, bound and collared like a golem (and not like the golem from the tale of the Warden either, Shale was funny as hell). 

“Dangerous.” She stated in a cool manner. Well that’s comforting. Tarasyl’s smile was awkward as he tried not to outright say that Qunari had shitty names for things. Then again…elves kind of sucked too…Far too many syllables and vowels for ordinary people to comprehend and a love for apostrophes… 

Saare however chuckled to herself. “It is a good name. Ensures everyone knows me without asking.” 

“That’s…certainly one way to look at it.” Tarasyl turned forward again, eyes scanning the crowds for good targets. There wasn’t enough space in the Conclave for everyone who came. Which was good because it meant more pockets to pick. Granted he had to be careful about who to target. Not everyone had much to take. 

“So what does yours mean?” Saare snickered. Hardly anyone in the kith could pronounce his long and tedious name. Most just referred to him as the Dalish, since he was the only one there. Sure there were elves, but they were all flat ears. 

Tarasyl snorted, still looking for some mark. “Tarasyl’inan? Or Harellan? Or Mahariel?” 

“All. I imagine it took practice saying it all in one breath.” 

He briefly looked at her, gauging how much he could tell her. It was a now old habit from dealing with Orlesians. “Well…Tarasyl is possibly sky, inan is eyes or dwelling place. Mahariel I think is just a name of some elf from the Dales. Harellan means trickster or traitor of one’s kin. That’s more like a title really.” 

“So sky eyed trickster?” She asked baffled. 

Tarasyl laughed, “More like dwelling place of the sky or eyes of the sky.” He batted his silver eyelashes beautifully to draw attention to them. In truth most people describe them as trapped stars. Coupled with his hair one noble who had bought him for a night had called captured moonlight and his pale skin, he was the walking personification of night. Though his mother had named him Tarasyl’inan because his eyes had been a deep velvet blue before...all this happened. “Harellan like I said is more like a title than a name. But I like your translation better.” 

She could tell by his voice that he wouldn’t stand any other questions about it, so she kept quiet. They wandered towards the Temple some more. 

Suddenly he saw some fancy looking guards and a noblewoman chatting with a Templar. The woman had honey colored hair worn in a bun and fancy ass robes. Oh wait…she’s a mage… Tarasyl cocked his head to the side watching as she laughed at something the Templar said. He thought Templars and Mages were like oil and fire. But the Templar took off his helmet revealing identical honey colored hair. 

“What’s so fascinating?” Saare asked as she followed his eyes. 

“What’s a mage doing with a Templar?” he asked without much of a thought. 

Saare shrugged. “Not everyone is fighting the war, some are just caught in the middle.” 

He supposed that was true. He wondered how his Clan was doing with this conflict. The Templars hadn’t been much of a problem when he was with them. But the war seemed to give the shems courage they had not possessed before. But he quickly squashed the worry like a bug inside his head. They weren’t his concern anymore. 

But it looked like those two were nobility. Or something. Tarasyl could practically smell the privilege on them. He flexed his fingers bounded in sleek black gloves to allow a smooth extraction of items. He flicked up his hood as he headed for them. 

“What are you—“ Saare started but the elf was already drawing attention to himself. 

The woman held up a hand as the guards around her all reached for their swords. She smiled sweetly as she watched Tarasyl with lavender eyes. 

“What can we do for you?” She asked in a kindly manner. 

“I’m afraid I’ve lost sight of my master.” He faked a frightened tone of a flat ear, hiding his Dalish burr with a Free Marcher accent. “All I did was get a drink and already he is gone. I must find him milady, I’ll get the switch if I’m gone from him for too long…” He kept himself meek, his head down low to hide his vallaslin as best he could. 

The woman’s eyes flickered to Saare behind him. “And the Qunari?” 

“Was trying to help me find him, but we just cannot seem to. Perchance have you seen him?” 

“Just who is your master?” The Templar spoke up, coming to the woman’s side with extreme suspicion. Tarasyl barely batted an eye. This was all his Game. 

“Master Lorenzi of Antiva, serah. Tall man, bronze skin, blond hair.” 

“Antiva? You sound like a Marcher to me.” The man snorted. 

“Master Lorenzi keeps a home in Ansburg, serah, where I am in service.” Tarasyl was sure to look frightened by being accused of lying. The woman glared at her companion. 

“You’re scaring the poor thing.” She scolded. “There’s no need to be frightened of him. My brother may be a scary Knight-Templar, but he’s more like one of those Ferelden dogs.” She smiled towards Tarasyl. He could tell she had a kind heart despite obvious noble blood. Shame he noted her coinpurse was rather large. 

“You are too naïve, Evie.” The Knight grumbled, watching the elf’s hands for any sudden movements. ‘Evie’ paid him no mind. 

“I’m Evelyn Trevelyan, this is my brother Maxwell.” She smiled as she motioned to her brother. Tarasyl bowed low, his pride flaring as he was forced to act like a flat ear. What he did for money. “Oh there’s no need for that, neither of us can have any titles.” She scratched the back of her head with a nervous smile. 

“Pleasure to meet you, my lady, my lord. I’m sorry to…” suddenly his mind that spoke more elven than trade tongue began to fail. He knew the word…he did…Impenetrate, improper, impregnate, impossible…Shit what was that word? 

Thankfully Evelyn waved his comment away before he could flounder around even more. “It’s no problem. We’d be happy to help you find your master.” She put a gentle hand on his shoulder and began to lead him towards the richer looking tents. 

“Lady Trevelyan is too kind.” Tarasyl muttered. He forced himself not to flinch, not to twitch upon feeling a shemlen touch him. They walked awhile, stopping some guards to ask if they had seen a Lorenzi anywhere. 

Carefully, Tarasyl’s hand began working the knots on her coinpurse, hidden by his large coat and her cloak. He almost had it when. _ZAP!_ Electricity shot through his arm and he yelped loudly. Evelyn had a wry smile on her face as Tarasyl held his twitching hand close to his chest. 

Then a large hand grabbed a hold of his hood, yanked it away while gripping his neck tightly. Maxwell blinked as the Dalish tried to twist himself free. A crowd of shemlen began to congregate around them. 

“You’re Dalish?” Maxwell asked, surprised by the face tattoo. What’s one of those doing here? 

“And you’re a shem!” Tarasyl hissed despite all common sense telling him to keep quiet. “Are we just going to state the obvious?” 

“I thought Dalish had some sort of pride, but apparently the rumors they are just common bandits—“ 

Tarasyl’s anger swelled up. He may have been exiled and hated by his Clan, but there was no way he’d tolerate a shemlen disrespecting them like that. He slammed his head back into the man’s jaw. The hand gripping his hair loosened, allowing him to twist around and land a punch to the human. 

Maxwell stumbled but didn’t let go as he stared at what seemed to be blizzards of hatred. All around them the crowd was murmuring. He could hear many of them taking bets against him, but he didn’t care. No shem would ever demean him or his People again so long as Tarasyl could help it. 

Pain shot through his scalp as the human yanked his head back by his now frazzled ponytail. He took a blow to the jaw that made him crumble to the ground from the leverage. Blood and dirt ran into his mouth as he blinked away the black dots. His anger didn’t die though as he shoved himself up and whirled on the human. 

They circled each other with death glares. Evelyn sighed to herself as though this was normal. Many guards took bets, calling them loudly and with insults. 

“Three crowns on the Templar!” One shouted. Tarasyl ducked a fist, moving behind him. His eyes were looking for a soft spot to hit. But with the amount of armor on the man that seemed impossible. Fucking Templars… 

Maxwell turned, only vaguely surprised when the elf didn’t try to hit him back. Vaguely. The elf seemed to have common sense after all. The elf instead chose to cast glances around at the growing number of humans. If he had known any better, the elf seemed to be calculating his chances. But as it is, Maxwell doubted the savage knew even the most basics of math. 

Be that as it may, they began the dance of fist fights, exchanging blows only when the elf managed to get a hit in. Otherwise Tarasyl ducked and danced away, sometimes the human would get lucky and grab him. 

In the meantime, the crowd grew and more bets were placed. Most were on the Templar, though one brave soul placed a bet on Tarasyl. Though he didn’t get to look at the person as Maxwell managed to throw him to the ground. 

Air rushed out his lungs upon impact, but his adrenaline raced through his system preventing him from feeling pain. That is until an armored boot connected with his side. Tarasyl’s small stature was easily flipped by the motion. A small cry escaped his lips. 

This was how it always was. Humans beat his people down, forcing them to do deplorable acts and then punishing them for trying to survive. That drove anger through his veins once more. Tarasyl twisted his body as only a rogue could and tripped the human. He scrambled to his feet to watch the human rise. 

With a flick of his wrist, a hidden dagger shot out of its compartment. It was a kard dagger he had crafted to earn his vallaslin. It was made of silverite with worn halla leather around its handle. When it was first crafted, the leather had a scene about his patron god June, but now it was worn from many days using it. 

It was small and short, but would be better than nothing at least. Tarasyl held it in front of him, ready to stab that pretty shemlen face at any given moment. Maxwell seemed amused like he found it funny that Tarasyl was brandishing a knife. Evelyn apparently found it far less so. 

“Brother stop this.” She demanded from the front of the crowd. An eerie silence had suddenly fallen over them, many hands on their swords. Tarasyl’s eyes, his every sense was straining to ensure he didn’t meet a blade in the back. 

Maxwell laughed, “Why, he seems perfectly happy to continue this.” 

Tarasyl narrowed his eyes further. They began circling each other again. It stayed like this until Maxwell rushed him. Tarasyl ducked out of the way, but another shemlen grabbed him by his ponytail. A hiss escaped his lips. He felt the bastard try and pull every hair out by its roots. His head went back trying to relieve some of the pain. 

The world was going slower now. From the corner of his eye, Tarasyl could see Maxwell starting to get ready to punch him. He could tell that he’d lose this fight. Too many shemlen would join in. But damn if he didn’t want to at least cut that pretty shemlen face. 

He gritted his teeth, making a snap decision. He would do what he did best: run. He flipped his dagger and cut up behind him. The shemlen made a surprised noise as the blade skinned the tops of his knuckles, hair easily being cut. The pain disappeared as he was able to spin around. 

In a quick motion, just as Maxwell got in range to punch the elf’s lights out, Tarasyl sliced across the human’s nose. He still met with a fist that knocked him flat, dagger flying from his grip. Pain, unnatural pain flared up his back, making him dizzy. 

The other humans apparently didn’t take kindly to him managing to get in a hit, for he felt a few kicks to his body. He could hear some people yelling as one foot slammed into his skull. Dots danced before his eyes. For a moment he thought he might vomit. But then the kicks stopped, and he felt someone trying to grab him. 

He panicked. He tripped the person before shooting to his feet. His eyes were a bit blurry as he reached into a pouch and found his miasma vile. He broke it upon the ground, obscuring himself. He took a breath for a moment, drawing on that distant hum beneath his skin. A sharp stab of pain ran through his veins, like they were on fire, but then it disappeared into an irritating hum on his skin before he was slipping through the throng at a dead run. No one saw him. No one felt him. The only good thing to come from his exile really. 

People began to shout again. His heart was pounding loudly in his ears as he tried to reach the edge of the crowd before the stealth wore off. His neck felt bare, head slightly lighter. He could taste blood. His muscles thankfully were still running off adrenaline so he didn’t feel much pain. 

Finally he burst out of the crowd and hightailed it for his camp. He barely noticed his stealth wearing off, the hum dying away into a dull ache. He could only hear the yelling behind him and his heart trying not to explode. He didn’t beeline towards it, but rather kept zigzagging to it, if only to hopefully throw off any pursuers. 

The camp with its little wolf statue came into view and Tarasyl’s heart leapt for joy. He always kept his things packed in case of these sudden need to move situations popped up. His legs burned, his bare feet cold as they hit the frozen ground. Someday he’d learn to kick this habit of stealing wherever he was (you’d think he would have learned that after stealing from Hawke and nearly getting his heart ripped out by Fenris). But that day was not today apparently. 

Tarasyl raced to his little tent, snatching his old travel pack. Just as he turned around, he smacked right into a large person. The hands that clasped his shoulders made his heart freeze. His mind remembered that feeling but with an entirely different person. One who loved to make him undress, to see his brands light up. 

“Where are you going in such a rush?” Brought him back to this world. Tarasyl blinked, refusing to cry at something that was dead and buried. His current situation flooded back to him. He looked up at a curious Adaar. 

“When did you all get back?” He asked without thinking. 

“They adjourned for lunch. You didn’t answer my question.” The Qunari narrowed his eyes at the twitchy elf. He could feel him quiver under his hands, his muscles were tensed and ready to go. And he had a bloody lip, the makings of a black eye, and some drying blood on his forehead. “Why are you all beat up?” 

“There he is!” The elf stiffened before trying to twist out of Adaar’s grasp. He tried going under, around, any way possible to get away. But the much larger man was barely affected. He merely ended up catching him rather quickly if he managed to break away. 

While Adaar was wrangling the elf, a group of humans, including a bleeding Templar swarmed around the camp. The kith all stood up as though bracing for an attack. Two of the Ashaads gripped their weapons tightly. Adaar frowned at the Templar. 

“Who are you?” He asked bluntly, still struggling to get Tarasyl to stay still. It was kind of like a child trying to get away from their mother by squirming in her arms. 

“Maxwell Trevelyan.” He grumbled as he glared at the elf. 

“Adaar. So whatcha running up to our camp with your sword out for?” 

Tarasyl sighed loudly. The arms around him might as well been iron bars. He knew he could phase through Adaar, but his brands were still aching. Plus they were rather unstable when he was panicked. Sometimes they didn’t work the way they should. He might end up materializing inside Adaar’s arm and that never ended well. So he stopped trying to budge the Qunari. Instead he accepted his fate of being Maxwell’s personal training dummy. 

“That elf tried to pickpocket my sister.” The elf flinched at the sword tip that was suddenly pointed at him. 

Adaar furrowed his eyebrows as he looked down at Tarasyl. “Well, seems to me that this elf got a pretty good beating compared to you—wait _tried_?” Adaar gave Maxwell a questioning look. “As in he didn’t really?” 

The human looked puzzled for a moment. “Yes tried. Then he drew a knife on me.” He motioned to his face. Adaar hardly thought that little scratch was worth all this fuss. It looked like Tarasyl had even cut his hair, to get away perhaps? That doesn’t sound like a fair fight even if the elf had a knife. 

“Any of this true, Dalish?” 

Tarasyl just glared at the ground. “I will not incriminate myself. Let the shemlen believe what he wants. They always do.” The Qunari could have rolled his eyes at the remark. 

“And you wonder why no one trusts the Dalish?” Adaar muttered under his breath. People called his kind stubborn, this elf took the cake. “Just answer the question, will ya?” 

Tarasyl sealed his lips tightly when a new voice spoke up. “Was anything actually taken? Aside from your pride that is.” A small dwarven woman walked up with a smile and a Legion of the Dead tattoo on her face. Maxwell glared at her while Evelyn shook her head. “Well then the elf didn’t do anything wrong, did he?” The human just glared. “From where I was, you grabbed him first, and I’ve met plenty of Dalish who would’ve gouged out your eyes rather than give you a graze on the nose.” 

“Are you telling me I should be grateful the rabbit didn’t kill me?” Maxwell sounded offended. 

Tarasyl lunged inside Adaar’s arms. Elven curses fell from his mouth as the Qunari had to struggle to keep him contained. 

“See? This is why people think humans are asses.” The dwarf motioned to the Templar. Evelyn tugged on her brother’s arm. 

“Max, let’s just go. You’re making a fuss over nothing. I already shocked the elf.” She whispered, noticing how people were starting to gather around again. The kith were all stiff and eyeing the outsiders like they were wolves. And she’d rather not get in a fight with Qunari. Her eyes focused on a woman with sawed off horns that pushed through crowd. Without using her magic, Evelyn knew she was a Saarebas. 

Her twin glared a bit at the elf. “I suggest you keep your pet under control, oxman.” He spat before turning and leaving. Adaar was half tempted to unleash his so called ‘pet’ at that comment. 

“You meet all sorts of charming people, don’t you, Dalish?” Adaar finally released the elf. Tarasyl kept his eyes down as he fixed his clothes. “You’ve got sticky fingers, huh? Should we check our supplies?” 

The elf frowned. “You have nothing worth stealing.” 

Before either of them could respond, Saare marched up to Tarasyl and picked him up by the collar so he was level with her angry eyes. “Do not ever do that again.” She hissed. It was like staring into the eyes of an ogre before he started to pummel you. 

“D-do what again...exactly? For future reference…” Tarasyl stuttered as her bright yellow eyes flashed dangerously. He could feel the magic prickle his brands as the air shimmered with heat. 

She dropped him and he fell on his ass. “You know perfectly well.” 

“Easy, Saare. You’re melting the mountain.” Adaar laughed. “We got it sorted out, don’t worry. No one’s going to touch your little elf--” He didn’t even get to finish because her eyes moved slowly to him. 

That and he had to duck a fireball. 

The dwarf laughed heartily. “If I were you, I wouldn’t piss her off.” Saare stormed off to her tent after that, about ready to murder the entire Conclave. As Tarasyl got to his feet, the dwarf took out his dagger. “Oh and by the way, what did I ever do to you? I was just trying to help you up.” 

The elf furrowed his eyebrows. She was the one who he tripped? “I’m...sorry?” 

“You better be! The one time I do something for someone else and I end up flat on my back!” She laughed handing him the old dagger. “Figured this was important to you.” 

“Not really...I’ve made better.” He shrugged as he put it back into its sheathe. “So who do I have to apologize to?” 

“Malika Cadash.” She grinned. “And yes I used to fight darkspawn for a living. People always ask ‘cause of the tattoo.” 

“That was going to be my next question.” 

***** 

_Well it’s now or never…_ Tarasyl told himself. He had found a stake-out spot not far from the Temple where there was still construction going on. He was hidden from the guards that stood around the area, but they weren’t always there. Today was the last day of the peace talks. And supposedly the day Sister Nightingale was to have that document placed at a drop point inside the Conclave. 

Around noon an elven servant would bring lunch to the guards, at dusk there would be a change of guards. However, he couldn’t wait until dusk. He needed that document. So his mind made a plan last night. Okay it wasn’t a plan. It was more like a suggested guideline. 

He reached into his pocket and headed to the little frozen stream not far from his hiding spot. Looking at his reflection he sneered before sitting down and covering his already faint vallaslin completely. He also took care to touch up the make-up on his scars, though he again knew nothing would truly take them away. He carefully rearranged his bangs to cover them. 

His pack slipped off his shoulder and he began to change clothes. The cold mountain air hit his bare skin, raising bumps and shivers over his skin. His reward for this shit had better be a king’s ransom. As he redressed himself in flat-ear clothing, his eyes caught sight of the light purple lines on his back. Quickly he hid them, disgust churning in his stomach. Damn shemlens anyway. 

Tarasyl put his pack over his head again and headed for the cook’s tent. The trick to not getting caught was acting like you belonged there. Head high, but low enough to appear humble and timid. Eyes down to avoid eye contact like a good elf. Steps confident but not commanding. Don’t look vulnerable, but don’t look like you could kill someone either. 

It was a thin line he walked, a tremendous balancing act where he either succeeded or fell. And falling meant death usually. 

He easily stole the guards’ lunch and went back to his secluded look out point. He had spent the majority of the night crafting a delicate sleeping potion just for this. Not enough to make them die, but still potent enough to knock them out for a good two hours. 

Having drugged the food thoroughly, Tarasyl headed for the side of the Temple. Keeping up his ruse, he bowed as he handed the food over and scuttled away. Now he just had to wait. 

***** 

Not an hour later he was scrambling up the side of the Temple, in through the hole, and shambling down the bricks to the floor...like a thief. He giggled to himself before he looked around. The halls were clear. He could hear loud voices coming from somewhere inside, but otherwise it was quiet. 

The place had changed from the first time Tarasyl came here. Significantly less crazed cultists and dragons for sure. Though he’d call the Chantry a bunch of crazed cultists. But it was a lot cleaner. 

With quiet footsteps, he stole into the shadows. He slunk around corners and through doorways till he got to the drop. According to his contractor, Leliana should have already made the drop and he had about ten minutes to get it before its intended receiver appeared. Can’t have that. 

He was in the library/study area. Books filled the walls, scrolls of various religious things and what have you were here and there. It was lit by several iron sconces, but still offered him various places to hide. 

Tarasyl’s heart started beating faster as he scanned the shelves quickly. This was both his favorite and least favorite thing about work. The sheer thrill of doing something he shouldn’t, being somewhere he shouldn’t be. The fear of being caught. He shook his head slightly. He needed to focus. He was looking for a particular book...Ah ha! 

Behind a large desk was the book with a large spine. The Chantry symbol flickered gold in the light. He recognized it as the Chant of Light book, but as he pulled it out, the cover was decorated with the Seekers of Truth’s design. Jackpot. 

He placed the heavy book on the desk and began to flip. When he could find no loose page, he gripped it by the cover and shook it. _For the love of Sylaise, Leliana! Did you have to be this fucking secretive?!_ She never was like this before...She was crazier sure, but not this fucking paranoid. 

_Says the thief trying to steal from her…_ Tarasyl snorted in his head. He frowned at the book as he dropped it on the table. He took a breath. A frustrated thief was a sloppy thief. _If I was the Left Hand and worried about thieves, where would I stash an important document?_

Well for starters he wouldn’t put the thing in such an obvious place. He checked the cover for small cuts. He looked at the hole the book left in the bookshelf, looking for a hidden mechanism. When he couldn’t find one he put his forehead against the wood with a sigh. Think like the Nightingale. Think like the Nightingale. 

His eyes squeezed shut as he thought. You would expect the document to be in a book or the bookshelf. That’s where you usually hid things. So...what’s a not so obvious place? What's easy to overlook? 

He opened his eyes to the dusty tomes. Something caught his eye. He turned his head slightly, looking up at the bookend. It was similar to the statue they had in the Kirkwall Chantry...you know...before it got blown up. 

It was rather unremarkable, meant to be unnoticed. Tarasyl cocked an eyebrow. What were the chances… 

He took it down and began to inspect it. His eyes could see no hinges, but there was definitely something off with the statue. He felt over the polished statue until his fingers felt a small difference. It was like something was loose on the sword’s handle. He pressed against that same spot and something clicked. 

The sword was hollow. Inside was the document he was looking for. Tarasyl nearly dropped the thing. Seriously? A hollow sword of Andraste? Chantry folk. He shook his head and snatched the paper, replacing it with a near identical looking paper. Nearly identical because only the outside was the same. Inside held his calling card. 

Zevran had suggested and helped design it after Tarasyl had stolen the Tears of Andraste, earning him the title of Dark Wolf. He had just started his thieving career back then. The Crow had laughed and said every great thief needed a calling card, something to strike fear into nobles’ hearts. 

He didn’t use it for awhile. It seemed silly and stupid to leave something behind. But once it had fallen out of his pocket when he was running, and suddenly he was infamous. That was all they had to go on. It became a fun little Game of his own. 

Tarasyl smiled to himself as he replaced the statue and the book. He slipped the document into a hidden compartment in his bracer. Now to get the hell out of here… He worked his way back the way he came. The air was thicker and far more eerie this time though. Like something was wrong. His brands felt itchy. There was magic around here… 

“Someone help me!” Cut through the silence. Tarasyl froze for a heartbeat. His head told him to run away. He got what he came for, what did he care about what was most likely some mage getting cornered by Templars? They dug their graves… 

But flashes of Wynne, Merrill, even that idiot Anders flashed in front of his eyes. Wynne was a kind and sassy old woman who was what he thought a mage should be like. Merrill was a bit misguided, but she just wanted to protect and preserve their shared culture. And Anders...well...He liked Anders, but even Tarasyl knew better than to blow up a Chantry. But he considered the mage a friend still. 

Before he knew what he was doing, he was running towards the voice. 

***** 

Next thing Tarasyl knew was his hand hurt like hell. Slowly he opened his eyes. He was sitting cross-legged on some stone floor. There were shemlen surrounding him and he was shackled. But more importantly, his left hand was glowing. _Glowing_ like a freaking firefly. 

He furrowed his eyebrows at it just as the door was thrown open. Its hinges rattled loudly in this place. He rose his head to watch as a very angry looking woman marched in with Leliana on her heels. His blood ran cold. 

This was it. He had been caught. He was going to get skewered. And he never got to see the Anderfels or the Grand Necropolis in Nevarra. 

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now?” The gruff warrior woman growled at him. 

“Because I’m pretty.” Slipped out of his mouth before he could think better of it. She immediately grabbed a hold of his collar and pulled him closer. 

“Do you think this is funny? The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone that attended is dead...except for you.” She glared. He glared at her as well. 

“And let me guess, I just happened to be at the wrong place and you shems decided to throw the blame on me.” It happened more often than not. Then his mind caught up to him. “Wait, what do you mean everyone is dead?” Was Adaar and the rest dead too? 

Rather than answer him, she grabbed his glowy hand and held it up in his face. “Explain this.” 

He searched his mind for any inkling as to why he had practically a fire on his palm. All he got was memories of running down a hall towards someone screaming. And the knowledge that this mark freaking hurt. It was like having the needle go through his skin again. 

“I-I can’t.” He whined. 

“What do you mean you can’t?” The warrior was beginning to get impatient. 

“I don’t know what that is, or how it got there.” Tarasyl growled. Didn’t he just say that? 

“You’re lying!” Cassandra coiled her fist and smacked him across the jaw. He swore he heard the bone pop as Leliana dragged her friend away. 

“We need him Cassandra.” Leliana looked at him sadly. “And he is a good friend.” 

“Elgar’nan’enaste! What the fuck do you do? Punch bears for fun?” He yelled as he tried to right his jaw. She packed a mean punch and he’d been punched by a lot of things. 

Leliana smiled, but quickly sobered. This man was a friend, but right now he was possibly their enemy. “Do you remember what happened? How this began?” 

“I remember running. There were these things chasing me...And then...There was this woman.” He shook his fiercely as his jaw became dull pain. He got flashes of the glowing lady as she pulled up onto a ledge. But much else was a mystery. Which was sad. It was his head, you’d think he’d know what was going on. 

“A woman?” 

“She reached out to me and then…” For the love of the Creators why couldn’t he remember? It was like he had been drinking. But he knew he hadn’t. He was perfectly sober. 

“Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take him to the Rift.” The what now? 

As she started to unshackle him, he had to ask. “What did happen?” 

“It would be easier to show you.” Right that didn't sound foreboding. No not at all. It was like his baby brother saying everything would alright and turn a corner walk right into a trap... 

He was led through a Chantry before he got to see why she had an ominous look on her face. 

Tarasyl stared up at the Breach with wide eyes. He started to edge backwards away from the woman. Oh hell no. He didn’t sign up for this shit. All he was told was to come to the Conclave, steal some document, and go on his merry way. He did not agree to the end of the bleeding world. That wasn’t in his contract; he wasn’t getting paid for this shit.


	2. Flicker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Small chapter on how Tarasyl met Hawke

\---Kirkwall, 9:31 Dragon--- 

Tarasyl scanned the marketplace for easy targets. It was starting to fill up with the afternoon rush. Much easier to pickpocket someone in large crowds. More people meant more suspects and the easier it was to get away. 

He was just fifty silvers shy of being able to stay at an inn rather than whore himself out to get a room at the Blooming Rose for a few weeks. He didn’t know how long he was going to be here after all. 

Suddenly, Tarasyl’s eyes focused on someone out of place in Hightown. He looked to be a mercenary crossed with a Circle Mage. Short black hair fell into his golden eyes. There was something familiar about him, yet the elf couldn’t place it. Still, he could see the rather large coin purse dangling on his belt. Plus the dwarf with the crossbow seemed to be a merchant of some kind maybe, but his coinpurse would be far too low for a simple fishing job. The two elves definitely wouldn’t have any money. So the human it was. 

Without much thought to a plan (he’d end up screwing up the plan anyway so might as well wing it), Tarasyl pushed off his wall and waded into the crowd. His hood covered most of his face in shadow, and thanks to his height, no one really noticed him. He was just some lanky teenager probably to them. 

As he got closer, he could hear the four talking about something involving the Deep Roads. Involuntary, Tarasyl shivered. He remembered those damn things and their fucking Broodmothers and damn shrieks. He could even remember the smell of decaying flesh that came off the things. He’d be a happy elf if he never had to see another darkspawn in his life. 

Recovering himself, Tarasyl edged forward, pretending to look at some wares on a merchant’s stand. From the corner of his eye, he could see the human coming closer. He was looking at some weapons it looked like. That wasn’t a good thing. 

The closer to weapons he was, the more likely Tarasyl was to being stabbed. But…It was right there… And the man’s companions were all paying attention to something that wasn’t the human… 

The thief bit his lip, thinking. He even began his nervous habit of playing with his earrings. Especially the long one made from a halla horn that he had carved into three separate pieces strung together ending in the tip. The griffon cuff on the other ear didn’t get messed with usually. 

Fuck it, he thought. He gathered all his tact and grace. He pretended to have found nothing and moved on to the next stall, the one with the human. Carefully covering his accent, he spoke to the human. “I wouldn’t chose that one if I were you.” He made sure to smile calmly as the man turned to him and the merchant glared. 

“And why is that?” the mage asked. He sounded Ferelden. 

Tarasyl’s expert eyes quickly found a fault in the making of the sword. “See that little line there?” He pointed to it. “That tells me this sword was broken before, so it’s been used. Whoever got it afterwards sharpened the edge down too thin and, the metal looks brittle where it was reforged.” He shrugged nonchalantly. 

“You have good eyes.” He commented as he put the sword back. 

“If you could tell that to my master I’d be happy.” 

“You’re an apprentice blacksmith then?” 

“Of a sorts.” Then Tarasyl pretended to look closely at the human. “You don’t sound like a Marcher…” He glanced at the companions once, making sure they were still preoccupied. The dwarf seemed to be talking to another merchant and the elves were arguing about something. Using the noise of the marketplace, Tarasyl stepped closer, straining his ear for better effect. “Sorry can’t hear too good anymore.” 

The human sighed loudly like this was something he got often. “No, I’m from…Ferelden actually…” The man looked to be bracing himself for an insult or something. Very quickly and very deftly, Tarasyl untied the coinpurse from the man’s belt. 

“Ah that’s why you sound familiar.” Tarasyl laughed. “I was just in Ferelden myself till about a month ago.” 

“Whoa, wait you were there during the Blight?” The dwarf asked. 

“Yeah, I was. Met the Hero of Ferelden too once.” He shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “Lots of people there still. More of us wanted out, but not enough boats, count yourself lucky.” 

“Yeah…lucky.” The human mumbled. 

Tarasyl took that awkward answer as his excuse to leave. “Well I hope you find a weapon, serah. But I’d try a different vendor.” Tarasyl began to turn away. “That one seems a bit out of your price range…” He mumbled as he slipped into the crowd. 

The dwarf watched the man suspiciously. He was definitely up to something but what? 

“Well that was…odd.” Hawke mumbled as he looked down on his friend. As Varric turned his attention to him, he noticed very quickly that Hawke’s belt was missing something very important. 

“I think we just got pocketed.” Varric grumbled. Hawke’s hands immediately went to his coin pouch only to find it missing. “I’ll admit, he’s good.” 

“Son of a bleeding bronto’s ass.” The human growled. He was really getting tired of being pickpocketed. He tried to see over all the crowd, searching for that hood. He just barely caught a glimpse of it heading out of Hightown and back into Lowtown. “Come on.” 

“Wow Hawke, you must have a sign that says ‘easy target’ on your forehead or something,” The dwarf chuckled as they headed down to Lowtown. 

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up dwarf. I still remember that you paid that guy to pickpocket me.” 

The dwarf winced. Dammit he really hoped the mage had forgotten about that. “Do you see him?” he didn’t have a good view from his height. It was the middle of the day and the market square was packed. Today of all days, it had to be packed. 

Fenris and Merrill were quiet as they helped scan, though they had no idea who they were looking for. 

“There!” Hawke shouted, pointing to a single black hood pushing through the crowd. The person looked over his shoulder before beginning to run. “Hey get back here!” Tarasyl’s heart beat a thousand times a minute as he pushed through people. Many were disgruntled but he’d rather keep his hide than care about them and their feelings. If he could get to Darktown, he could lose them, maybe slip into one of the passages ways underneath and make it to the docks… 

His feet hit the ground hard, tiny rocks biting into the pads of them. But he still ran, jumping over railings to skip stairs, ducking under people’s arms, and spinning when he was about to collide with someone. He saw the stairs going down into the underbelly of the city ahead. He could have cried with joy. 

He didn’t see, however, a particular elven warrior coming up on his side. Though he did notice when said warrior blindsided him and pressed him against a wall by his throat. For a moment Tarasyl’s mind spun. He could barely comprehend that he had been hit, let alone that a clawed hand was now wrapping around his windpipe. He could barely breathe. His head became lighter and lighter as he tried to suck in air. Then his marks started to burn. Like they were on fire. That snapped him out of his daze. 

He felt a surge go through his muscles, spasms rippling. His heart skipped a few times as the hum became far louder. There was another hum over his skin that pulsed out-of-sync with his. It irritated his. Made it hurt more. Thousands of needles stabbed along his marks as they gave off their purplish glow. 

The warrior’s eyes widened slightly as Tarasyl phased out of his grip. When he was clear, Tarasyl started gasping for breath, holding his throat. He just stood there and glared for a moment. What the fuck was that? 

That was when he noticed the white markings in the other elf’s dark skin. The two just stared at each other in a mix of disbelief, pity, and sheer hatred. In the meantime, Tarasyl’s brands kept flaring, flickering him in and out of tangibility. And the thief was also surrounded. 

“What the…” Came Hawke’s voice, startling Tarasyl. He jumped, and spun to protect his back as the man stared bewildered. It was like seeing a spirit trying to manifest in the real world. The human looked over to Fenris. “Did your marks…rub off or something?” 

Fenris snorted. “They are branded into my skin, Hawke. They couldn’t rub off even if I tried.” 

“I tried to cut them out once, I don’t recommend it,” Tarasyl quipped. Even he knew when the jig was up. Either he surrendered the purse now, or he’d be dragged to the Kirkwall jail. And that was the last place he wanted to be. With a frown he straightened. 

“Wait…I know that voice…” The other elf stepped forward. She was sweet and innocent looking, so Tarasyl didn’t bother to do anything as she came closer. Plus his brands were on fire as he coaxed the hum back inside. Slowly he became solid again, still glowy, but he didn’t cause them a headache at least. 

“Careful, Daisy, we don’t know what else he can do besides flicker.” The dwarf warned. 

The elf paid him no mind as she brushed his hood back. A gasp left her mouth. “Tarasyl?” Then her green eyes lit up and she hugged him. He hissed loudly, feeling pressure on his sensitive marks. It was like touching a fresh burn or rubbing alcohol into a wound. She jumped back. “Oh I’m sorry. Did I hurt you? Fenris didn’t hurt you, did he?” 

Tarasyl took a long look at her face, bending down to study it. He could vaguely remember someone similar but without vallaslin. “Mana…Merrill? Little baby Merrill?” He mumbled. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Hawke interrupted. “You two know each other?” He looked between the two elves. So not only was there another lyrium elf, but the other lyrium elf knew Merrill, so he was Dalish, so what the hell was he doing in Kirkwall? More importantly, why did he have the lyrium in the first place? 

“Of course, we do. He’s Mahariel’s older brother.” She grinned. 

“Half-brother. I only have to claim half of him, thank you.” Tarasyl mumbled bitterly. They all stood dumbfounded. The Warden’s older brother was a lowly thief? A rather terrible one at that. “So why are you here with the shemlen, Merrill?” 

“I…” She looked down like she had something troubling her. “I could ask the same, Tara.” 

The elf groaned at the childish nickname. “Seriously? Renassan kept calling me that all through the Blight.” He rolled his pale eyes. “I just about had to kill him and Zev.” 

Merrill giggled, which ate away his annoyance. “How is he?” She asked quietly. 

He had to wince. _Dying_ was his first answer. But his Clan sent him away to save him. Tarasyl didn’t have the heart to tell them they just condemned him to a albeit longer lifespan than before, but it was still short. “Well, he’s…pretty much the same little idiot as before. Only now he’s got a fancy title that allows him to do stupid shit.” 

“That’s good.” Merrill still looked sad, but she suddenly realized what she said. “Not good that he’s being an idiot, but that he’s still the same. Though that’s kind of the same thing isn’t it?” 

“He misses you guys, by the way.” Tarasyl interrupted. She brightened a tad at that. “Anyway, here’s your money back.” He tossed the coin purse. “It wasn’t as heavy as I thought it was.” 

Hawke snorted. “Did I look like someone with a lot of money?” 

“No, but you were buying in Hightown, so you had to have something.” He shrugged. “I was wrong apparently.” Tarasyl started to turn to head back to Hightown. “Keep a hand on your stuff, shem. Not all thieves are as charming as me.” 

Hawke rolled his eyes, but Varric had an idea. That elf had been with the Warden through the Blight no less. Who better to bring to the Deep Roads than a veteran? He elbowed Hawke. “You know, Taliesin, he might be a good ally in the Deep Roads…if he keeps his hands to himself.” 

Hawke frowned, but even he couldn’t deny that. “Wait a minute. I could still have you arrested for thieving you know.” He called to the elf. Tarasyl’s back stiffened before he looked over his shoulder. 

“This is the part where you coerce me into doing something for you, right? Save it, shem, I’ve broken out of plenty of cells before.” He growled. He refused to be manipulated by anyone. Plus he had a job to do. He had to find him. 

“Well, then I guess you’ll just miss out on the profits, won’t you?” Varric cut in. Thieves usually only listened to one thing: coin. They were just as bad as mercenaries. Worse actually. Mercenaries were loyal so long as you had coin to pay them (good ones anyway); thieves might rob you blind at the drop of a hat or betray you to the highest bidder or both. 

That made the elf pause and turn. “Oh?” 

“See we are mounting an expedition into the Deep Roads and could always use another good scout. But you wouldn’t be interested in that, would you?” 

“Depends if you are going to pay me or not.” Tarasyl glared. “And there’s no old-friend-discount either.” He loathed the idea of going into the Deep Roads again, but Renassan had found some of the best things in those old thaigs. Things that sold for a lot of money. 

“Of course you’d have to agree not to pickpocket us or make off with things. We already have Isabella for that.” The dwarf smiled. Tarasyl shifted on his feet. He did like having money to spend. Especially if it meant he could stay out of the whorehouses. Plus he might be able to get more information if he cozied up to a human (as much as that thought made him want to vomit). 

“Fine. Deal.” Tarasyl growled. He turned back to continue his path. “You need me, I’ll be at the Blooming Rose.” 

***** 

\---Haven, Present--- 

“Flicker? Is that you?” A familiar dwarf asked as Tarasyl held his burning hand to his chest. He was being led to the Conclave it seemed. But they had to stop at this thing called a Rift. Tarasyl hated the things already; he didn’t want to go near another one. 

He flicked his wrist a few times, as though to knock off the magic. He turned to Varric, not believing what he was seeing. “Varric?” He squinted like he was an illusion before sighing. He relaxed having someone he knew. “Why the hell are you here? Thought you were in Kirkwall covering our track—I mean, helping the reconstruction.” 

Cassandra eyed the two with a suspicious glare. Varric chuckled. “Technically I’m a prisoner, just like you.” 

“Only I doubt anyone threw rocks at your head.” Tarasyl whined. Cassandra had started to lead him through Haven when more hell broke loose. People were agitated at his very sight. Guards and townsfolk alike spat hateful things. Words he could handle, but then someone got a brilliant idea to throw a snowball at him. Snowballs turning into rocks and he ended up with a knot on his skull and blood drying in his hair. 

“No, though the Seeker did stab me in the book.”


	3. The Phantom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As it turns out, Tarasyl isn't the worst thief there is...
> 
> He's the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to see what I imagine my little baby to look like? Clicky on [over here](http://aeantizlkamenwati.deviantart.com/art/DA-I-Concepts-The-Sky-eyed-Trickster-593217660) His vallaslin isn't drawn yet because I've yet to design it.
> 
> Warning: self-harm happens, also some talk of suicide. I'll put it in the tags too.

So Breach closed…or stable…or something. Hooray. Whoopee. Huzzah. Job well done. Could he leave yet? Tarasyl fidgeted in that little cabin. He walked from the window to the door to the bed and back to the window more times than he could count. That elven girl had been so frightened of him, like he was evil incarnate. It made him fear what lay beyond that door. 

So he occupied his mind with thinking of ways to get out of here. Haven had changed in the past ten years, but it still wasn’t Qunari gaatlok-science to think of ways to leave unseen. He could shimmy up the chimney for one. Though he had done that before, he’d prefer not to do so again. His job might be a dirty one in the metaphorical sense, but he’d rather stay clean in the physical sense. 

_This is just my freakin luck,_ Tarasyl thought bitterly. He peeked out the door to find shemlen all waiting around. Probably to stone him to death or something. And he doubted they’d care who his brother was, or who his contacts were. No, in their eyes he was a divine murderer (pun intended). 

He shut the door quietly. His heart started to pick up pace as he slid down to the ground. He always knew his profession was going to get him killed, just he didn’t think it’d be because of false identity. The one time he didn’t lie about who he was, and he was accused of lying. That’s incentive for telling the truth right there. 

Tarasyl raked his fingers through his choppy hair. He wondered if he’d be stoned to death before he got a trial, or would he be put on a pyre. Fire seemed to be a shemlen favorite death. He supposed he could be hung or drowned. He wasn’t sure which he’d rather. Who the hell has to think about how they’d rather be executed anyway? 

_Thieves who got caught…_ Tarasyl mocked himself. He gave a bitter laugh. He had stolen from hundreds of Orlesian lords and ladies, he had a codename, his mark was plastered all over Val Royeaux for the love of the Creators! He had survived fighting the Blight, and living in freaking Kirkwall! Yet he couldn’t survive one act of terrorism. Not that he was the terrorist. Just at the wrong place, at the wrong time. 

His mind whirled over those last few coherent memories before all this shit. He’d heard someone screaming and ran for it. Or was it towards it? Mythal’enaste he couldn’t even remember that! 

Tarasyl snarled, slamming his head back against the door. Pain flashed around his head. But it felt nice, just a soft pulsating feeling that was neither painful or soothing. So he did it again and a third time ‘till he had smacked all these thoughts out of his head. 

What did it matter that he couldn’t remember how he got here? What did it matter if he was going to be put to death? He couldn’t remember a lot of nights and couldn’t care less. As for being executed, he deserved death. Hell at times he wanted it. He’d stare at his nine daggers, just thinking about shoving one through his ribs like he had to so many enemies. 

But he’d always freeze, lock up when he gripped a dagger’s hilt. His greatest enemy and he couldn’t kill him. He was just pathetic and weak. That hadn’t changed in twelve years. If he wasn’t, he could have killed that magister, fought the blood magic and killed him. He could’ve been enough to make her stay and live. If he was strong, he wouldn’t have done the things he’d done; he wouldn’t have to steal, lie, and cheat. 

But he wasn’t strong. He had killed his sister instead of the magister. His mother had abandoned him, had chosen to die even though she had three children. He ran when things got hairy. He had taken gold over so many people’s lives. Every second breath, he lied. Every few heartbeats, he cheated. 

He was a monster, a weak pathetic excuse of a monster. He deserved death and since he could not kill himself, he had to wait for someone to do it for him. His last act of cowardice as it were. 

Tarasyl’s eyes stung, but he had long run out of tears to cry. They’d well up and die right after. He clenched his jaw, staring at that mark. Now that it wasn’t pulsing with magic, it just became another brand on his skin. A faint and distant hum that dictated the hum of the others. 

His eyes fell upon his bracer. He hadn’t checked; he’d just assumed that Leliana would know all his tricks so what was the point? What were the odds that…Tarasyl opened the hidey-hole and couldn’t believe it. 

The paper was still in it. How the hell did someone miss that? They had taken all his daggers and weapons, including the hidden ones, but missed the document with the Divine’s seal on it? Someone needed to be fired from their job. He shook his head in disbelief. So that means the people outside his door didn’t know his true intentions. They still could lynch him, sure. But he wasn’t concerned about it. 

So he needed to get out of this crazy shit and back to Orlais. After all, he didn’t have much. He didn’t have respect, money, or even self-love. But he did have his reputation. And he wasn’t about to let someone take that away from him. Even if it was pretty much a lie. It was still **his** lie. 

Escaping Ferelden with stolen contraband…Right…that would be easy…He wondered if Isabella was somewhere in Ferelden again…He could steal a horse, he supposed. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

But he was getting ahead of himself, wasn’t he? First he had to survive Haven…again. And he wasn’t sure whether he liked his odds against dragon cultists or these people. 

***** 

No one threw rocks at him this time…That was something. Of course he didn’t come across many townsfolk. Mostly just soldiers saluted him. Funny. A couple of days ago they were also spitting curses and throwing things at him. 

Tarasyl kept looking over his shoulder. His skin crawled from the number of eyes on him. Did he have something on his face? Or were they staring at the lyrium on his face? Or was this how it felt to be walking to the gallows? Breaking into Fort Drakon didn’t feel like this. 

But he kept his head high. He made it look like he wasn’t feeling like a trapped animal. He looked confident, like he had nothing to hide. This was all a misunderstanding. There was no way he was a thief looking to get off this crazy wagon train even if he had to jump off a cliff to do so. No way. 

He walked into the Chantry. It was still eerie. Probably because he remembered the psycho shems that worshiped a mass of fire-breathing flesh as Andraste. Or because right as he walked through the door, yelling could be heard. 

In particular, “He should be taken to Val Royaeux immediately!” Well that would solve his problem of getting the hell out of Haven wouldn’t it? The trick would be how to give the Chancellor the slip once in Orlais. 

“I do not believe he is guilty.” Came the Seeker’s voice. _Says the woman who punched me._ Tarasyl snorted in his head. If that’s how she showed trust, he was afraid to know how she showed any other feeling. She’d make for a good Qunari probably. 

“The elf failed, Seeker. The Breach is still in the sky. For all you know that is how he intended it.” Tarasyl reached the door and flung it open, interrupting whatever was going to be said with his own sarcasm. 

“Yeah let me tell you letting a giant hole in the sky continue to shit out demons was totally my intention. Gotta love demons. And the Fade. And Fade demons, those are the best.” Tarasyl smiled and shrugged as he stood in the doorway. 

“Chain him. I want him prepared for travel to the capital for trial.” 

Tarasyl got a dirty smirk. “Kinky. But didn’t you take a vow of chastity, Chancellor?” The shem’s face began to darken whether with embarrassment or anger, they may never know. “I realize I’m a fetching piece of elf flesh, but I don’t do that weird bondage crap. You understand right?” 

“You little—“ 

“Disregard the Chancellor’s orders. And leave us.” Cassandra broke through, shaking her head. The guards saluted and closed the door behind them. Well at least he wouldn’t be arrested right off the get go. 

“You walk a dangerous line, Seeker.” Was that a threatening tone? Not that he was surprised. A lot of Chantry folk he had met would sooner chase him out of their town than welcome him with open arms. Of course, there was Sebastian…but Creators did he annoy Tarasyl. 

They often engaged in philosophical debates on whether the Creators or the Maker were real. Tarasyl may not have been a priest, but his sister was the closest thing the Dalish had. She had wanted to become a travelling Keeper, wandering between the Clans, carrying news and tales to help unify the Dalish. He supposed he was doing that job now, but through very different means… 

“The Breach is not the only threat we face.” Cassandra growled, snapping Tarasyl from his thoughts. She reminded him of one of those Great Bears in the Emerald Graves. Or an ogre, neither of which was probably a good compliment, but he had never been good at giving compliments to anyone. 

“Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave, someone Most Holy did not expect.” Leliana stepped forward from her shadows. “Perhaps they died with the others. Or have allies that yet live.” Her eyes narrowed on the Chancellor. Tarasyl shivered at the daggers being thrown. He remembered her a lot…softer…worrying about if she was good and whatnot. 

“I am a suspect?” The Chancellor asked bewildered. 

“Apparently.” Tarasyl snorted. “Thought most Chantry clergy were above suspicion?” 

“At this point, nearly everyone is under suspicion.” Cassandra clarified. 

“But not the prisoner.” Roderick grumbled. 

“I heard the voices in the Temple. The Divine called to him for help.” 

“Yeah…uh…I think she was just generally calling for help and I happened to be the only stupid one around.” Tarasyl muttered under his breath. This was what he gets for being altruistic on a job… 

“So his survival, that thing on his hand, all just coincidence?” 

“Providence. The Maker sent him to us in our darkest hour.” They all turned to the now-twitchy elf. Seriously? First he was a wanted criminal, now he was some sort of savior? Shemlen make up your bloody minds. 

But the very thought of being a savior rubbed him the wrong way. For one, he was the _Maker’s_ chosen. He had no problem with shemlen religion so long as it wasn’t being forced upon him. That was the whole point of having the Keeper tattoo his face, right? To show he followed the Old Ways? 

“Uh, hate to break it to you, Lady Punches Bears, but if I was sent by anyone it’d probably be Fen’Harel, or maybe Elgar’nan.” He held up his hands as though shield himself from her anger. “Leliana can vouch for me, I’m not a savior kind of elf; that’s my idiotic brother’s domain.” 

Leliana gave a soft chuckle while Cassandra kept her straight face (it had only faltered at her new title). “No matter who you are, or what you believe, you are exactly what we needed when we needed it.” She turned around to fetch something. 

“The Breach remains, and your mark is still our only hope of closing it.” 

“No pressure, the thing just nearly killed me…twice.” Tarasyl crossed his arms with a sour look. 

“This is not for you to decide.” Roderick growled. Then Cassandra tossed a giant book on the table. The loud bang echoed through Tarasyl’s head. Seriously, elf ears are far more sensitive to noises! Have a little courtesy lady! 

“Do you know what this is?” She jabbed her finger at the flaming eye. He had seen that before…On the sheet of paper he stol—shit. “A writ from the Divine granting us the authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.” She made herself taller, looking down at the Chancellor like he was an enemy. 

Tarasyl didn’t like where this was going. The Inquisition? He didn’t know a lot about human history, but something that asks a lot of questions usually gets people upset. And then there’s the fact that he was technically still a prisoner…with stolen goods…Last place he wanted to be was in something called the Inquisition. 

“…With or without your approval.” 

“You tell them, Lady Punches Bears.” Tarasyl snickered as the Chancellor glowered and then left. Not without a good glare in his direction of course. He waited for the door to slam shut. “So uh, that went well. For servants of the Chantry, you guys aren’t submissive are you?” 

Leliana smiled from under her cowl scarf thing. “We answer only to the Divine, not every cleric of the Chantry.” 

“Uh…huh…so this has been fun, getting punched in the face, rocks thrown at me, and then a giant hole in the sky that made my hand try to kill me…but what now?” She pointed to the book. Tarasyl frowned at it. It was huge, thick with several different sized pages and few things sticking out of it. He didn’t like where any of this was going. 

“This is the Divine’s directive: rebuild the Inquisition of old, find those who would stand against the chaos.” 

“So you need idiots?” Tarasyl mumbled to himself. “I’m sure there are plenty of those to go around. Afraid I can’t help you locate the biggest idiot of them all.” He shrugged. 

“We have already tried to find your brother, and could not. We couldn’t even find the rest of the Ferelden Grey Wardens.” She shook her head sadly. 

“I think Weisshaupt is being a giant ass and called them. They like doing that.” Tarasyl shrugged. Renassan deserved to have a little vacation from everything going to hell in a hand basket. Again. 

“Be that as it may, we aren’t ready. We have no leader, no numbers, and now no Chantry support.” 

“But we have no choice. We must act now.” Cassandra turned to him, and Tarasyl saw the most frightening thing he had ever seen in her eyes: hope. Hope that he’d save them, help them. What he saw in her eyes was expectations he couldn’t meet. His heart started hammering and he began to fidget with his bandana strings. “With you at our side.” 

“T-that’s…that’s very flattering but uh…” His mouth stumbled for a moment. The walls constricted around him. Then his brain caught up to him. “You know the Grey Wardens had the same problem during the Fifth Blight, and somehow they managed.” The sudden change in topic made them blink. “I mean only two of them remained, both grossly undereducated, and they were thought to be enemies of the state. Yet…they beat the Blight in a year with a handful of papers and a rag tail bunch of strangers.” 

“What is your point?” 

“Point is that I think you’ll do just fine. Without me.” He took a few steps back towards the door. “Assuming I’m able to go?” he looked at Leliana. 

“You can go if you wish.” 

“You should know that while some think you chosen, others still think you guilty. And we can only protect you if you are with us.” Cassandra slyly mentioned. Tarasyl nearly snorted and choked on his laughter. He was the Phantom of Orlais! The Dark Wolf of Ferelden! Nearly every noble house in Orlais, some in Ferelden, and a few in Nevarra wanted his head on a silver platter. Might as well add a few Chantry people. 

“We can also help you.” Leliana mentioned. “For old times’ sake.” 

“I’m good.” Tarasyl quickly countered. Last thing he needed was to talk with Leliana. Who he just stole from. She’d probably figure it out in a heartbeat if they started talking. 

“You cannot say this has not changed you…” Cassandra tried. 

“Watch me. I’ve lived in a perpetual state of denial and disassociation for most of my life, mostly through bad humor.” He rolled his eyes. “So can I have my stuff back?” They had taken his satchel that contained everything from his crafting tools to his thief tools. And he’d really like to be out of this itchy mercenary coat and back into his Tevinter silk armor. 

“You are sure?” Leliana asked quietly. In both their eyes was disappointment. He was crushing every hope they had. And he was okay with that. Better crush their hopes now and get away with his neck than crush them later with his poor social skills and get beheaded. 

Tarasyl nodded once. “Yeah. Don’t worry, you’ll forget about little ol’ me in a couple of months. You’ll be fine.” He gave a lopsided grin. He hoped the panic that was steadily rising in his blood didn’t show on his face. 

His markings were even starting to burn. 

Leliana walked to wherever Cassandra had went and came back with his old leather satchel and his bow. Good thing too. Renassan sent that thing to him, said it was made of Heartwood. He’d never hear the end of it if he lost that thing. 

Tarasyl opened his satchel and looked through it, making sure everything was there. One, two, three…nine daggers, two sets of lockpicks (one for ordinary doors and one for enchanted locks), the Arulin’holm that he kept ‘forgetting’ to give back to the Sabrae Clan, some other crafting tools, his maps and journal, and his two sets of clothes. Dread Wolf be praised. 

When he finished his inspection, he closed it and threw it over his shoulder. “Well, can’t say it’s been pleasant, but uh…” He took his bow and backed up a step, “Good luck plugging the hole in the sky and uh…” He looked at Leliana, “Dareth Shiral.” 

Tarasyl refrained from bolting through the door as he wished. Instead he calmly opened it and walked out. Despite his heart wanting to break his chest or his brands wanting to burn his veins. He ground his teeth together and fought the urge to start glowing. 

When he walked out into the open air, people were gathered. He jumped, waiting for someone to pick up a stick or a stone. He stared at them wide eyed, and they at him. A few moments passed before some of them parted for him. He swallowed, hesitating to be surrounded again. 

Gathering as much courage as he could muster, Tarasyl stepped forward. His hands tightened on their items just a fraction. He pulled at the distant hum of his brands, preparing them to activate should the need arise. Dozens of eyes followed his every move. Whispers began to fill the air. 

He wished that his ears weren’t so sensitive. They twitched towards every snippet of conversation he heard. Was the Herald really leaving? What were they going to do? Was the Inquisition truly a lost cause? 

He was probably murdering every hope these people had for salvation in a world gone mad. Which was for the best really. Tarasyl knew better than anyone he wasn’t a hero. He didn’t save people. He was the one who usually had to be saved. He wasn’t a leader, he was a follower, a companion. He was good for witty remarks, lockpicking, and being a pain in the ass. 

“Flicker?” Varric’s voice interrupted the elf’s self-condemnation. He looked up to see the dwarf standing by a fire, parts of Bianca scattered about. She was probably being cleaned. That bald elf was standing quietly out of the way near a tent, watching him. 

“Hey, Varric.” Tarasyl greeted lamely. Suddenly it felt like the whole mess with Kirkwall again. Having to say farewell to all his friends, his family, his _home_ after six (nine if you add in the time he didn’t necessarily like any of them) years…it hurt. A lot. A lot more than he remembered. And without that little support he got from all of them, he fell right back into his old habits. Familiarity helped some of the ache, added to it too like when he didn’t have enough money to eat and had to sell his body for a night. 

“You doing okay?” Varric asked. He worried for all of his friends, and the thief was high on the list. He looked the elf over, more than he had in the valley since they weren’t getting demons thrown at them. 

He was thinner than when they last saw each other. Of course, before Hawke had given the elf a place to stay, he was always that thin. He shifted on his feet like he did when he was nervous, but he wasn’t shaky like he was when he was coming down from a high. He looked tired, which was to be expected. His hair was choppy, a few strands longer than others, making the dwarf believe the elf had gotten into trouble. Whether it was the fight kind of trouble or a kink kind of trouble was the question. 

“I’ll be better once I’m away from this whole crazy mess.” Tarasyl interrupted. The dwarf then noticed the pack and bow. 

“You leaving, Flicker?” 

The elf nodded. “What you guys need is something beyond me. Besides the thing is stabilized, so maybe the Rifts will disappear…” He doubted it, but it’s always nice to hope. Which was for the best after all. Varric could already tell this story would be no good for heroes. Not that Flicker was a hero. Hell he was probably the worst possible choice for a hero you could find without getting too technical. 

“Well, Bianca will miss you something fierce if you get yourself killed, so be careful.” Varric joked, though he really was worried for the elf. 

Tarasyl smirked bitterly. “I’ll try to keep Bianca from such pain as best I am able.” He bowed in as though to noble born lady. “And you take good care of her, Varric. I don’t want to have any letters beseeching me to come steal her away.” He winked as he straightened. 

The dwarf snorted with a chuckle, “I’m always the perfect gentleman.” 

***** 

So that was easy…which made Tarasyl extremely suspicious. Nothing ever went according to his plans. _Nothing_. It was like the Dread Wolf took great satisfaction in fucking with his life. Part of the reason why Harellan was just a good title for him. In fact the last words his Aunt Deshanna told him was: Fen’Harel ma ghilana, The Dread Wolf guides you. 

_More like pisses on me,_ Tarasyl grumbled in his head as he entered the Hinterlands. They had improved quite a bit since he last came here. No undead rampaging, or darkspawn ravaging. Just bandits, mages and Templars fucking up the countyside. Normal day in Thedas. 

He shifted his pack as he came off a hill. He kept looking over his shoulder, half-expecting to find a spy and the other half thinking to see a six-eyed wolf. He had seen some crazy-ass things in his time adventuring, so that wasn’t sarcasm. Of course, he didn’t spot either of those things, but he was on the look out nonetheless. 

The sun was starting to set, one of the moons rising to the east. He’d have to make camp for the night it seemed. He didn’t like the idea. Mostly because sleeping in the open guaranteed things would try and make him part of the food chain. And strangely Tarasyl liked his guts where they were. 

He scanned the area for a sturdy tree to settle into. Dalish children were taught to nest in trees if they were away from their aravel and darkness fell. Shemlens don’t look up and aside from ant bites and the occasional squirrel, it was mostly safe. Always build a bed between two branches and sleep lightly of course. Falling out of a tree was a shitty wake up call. 

He quickly singled one out that had two boughs close enough together for him to make a nest in. Tarasyl strolled to it, picking up branches along the way to start to build the blind. At the trunk he dropped his pack and sticks. 

One thing he missed a lot was his aravel. It made travelling so much easier. But he let the halla go free, and so the wagon was stuck in an old ruin Tarasyl claimed as his base of operations. Which was in Orlais, hidden still he hoped. He didn’t have a lot in the way of possessions and most he carried with him at all times, but he had some gold stashed away along with other trinkets and do-dads he picked up or made. 

No use crying over a broken wheel. He gave a loud sigh and dug around in his pack. His tree spurs and spikes had of course nestled their way to the bottom so he had to dump a lot of contents on the ground to get them out. His tree gloves, a pair of fingerless gloves with spikes on their palms, were also there. 

He strapped the odd footwear on and around his leg. Normally, he usually walked around with the spurs on, allowed for quick getaways as well as another line of defense. Plus Tevinters had a thing for metal spikes and Tarasyl, though he’d never admit it, he had a taken a liking to some of their designs. Partly why he kept parts of his old slave armor. 

The spikes that buckled around the balls of his feet, he didn’t wear often. They made a protective leather covering over his toes and allowed him to dig into the bark if he didn’t have a rope. Also useful in scaling Orlesian walls by the way. 

Tarasyl rolled his shoulders as he got ready to climb. He patted the tree trunk as though to say sorry to the old thing. But he needed to sleep. Then he got to work. 

***** 

Tarasyl lazily swung his leg draping off his nest as he cut pieces of fruit away with his knife. His fire crackled beneath him, light dancing over him as he ate. He had changed back into his armor, the armor made from Tevinter silk that didn’t scratch his lyrium markings. His cloak/cape acted as a blanket and a hood. 

The Hinterlands were alive with bugs and soft sounds of animals. He watched the darkness around him like a predator. The dark earth colors of his armor would keep him camouflaged for the most part. And the fire would drive away most predators and bugs, but then there were also demons around here. And Mages. And Templars. 

Tarasyl thought over everything that had happened to him in the last three days. He had apparently been a dipshit and interrupted something that left a pain in the ass mark on his hand. Said mark also had tried to kill him. Could it try to kill him again? Like if he didn’t seal Rifts, would it start becoming wildly out of control again? 

Stranger still was how the lyrium on that hand lit up and then dimmed softly with the mark, like they were breathing. But he didn’t feel the weird burning prickles he got whenever he tapped into the lyrium markings. So maybe they were just reacting to the magic? Like he did with mages? 

Speaking of mages, the Conclave apparently tanked. Not that anyone thought it would end well. But it seemed a lot of people were willing to give it a go, judging from the amount of bodies he had seen on the way back to the Temple. Thankfully, he had found no Qunari bodies, so he allowed himself a small trickle of hope that Adaar and Saare’s group had made it out. 

But he had seen something even more troubling. He didn’t point it out to Lady Punches Bears or Varric or Worry-stone Head, of course, they were already jumpy enough as it was. And he didn’t want to cause Renassan an unnecessary headache. 

There was one or two Grey Warden corpses on the mountain. And he knew, _knew for a fact_ the Grey Wardens wouldn’t be attending the Conclave. Not the Fereldens, not the Orlesians. They had taken in mages who wished to join them rather than the Rebels or the Loyalists, sure. But they were remaining neutral on the War. Of course, all the Wardens Tarasyl knew hardly gave a rat’s ass about what Weisshaupt said or wanted. So it was possible some Wardens disobeyed their neutrality code. His stomach didn’t sit right thinking of it though. Something was off. His instincts told him so. 

Tarasyl spit out a seed he had been chewing on. He’d get nowhere thinking about it. His memory was as good as gone. So he’d finally get around to writing a reply to his idiot brother. Maybe he’d have some answers. 

And it was probably best for Tarasyl to tell him about the whole Breach thing before he heard some terrible story about the Herald of Andraste. 

***** 

_\---Ferelden, 9:30 Dragon---_

 _“So…Ren, about this other Dalish we are going to meet…” a shemlen’s voice drifted up to Tarasyl as he sat in a tree. He kept still in his nest, pausing in his whittling. He glanced up, catching only a few glimpses between trees._

 _

“He’s my half-brother if you must know,” A Dalish accent sighed, like he was tired of dealing with the shem. 

“And his Clan is alright with sending him into danger,” A woman shemlen asked, “Your Clan did not seem to let you go so easily.” A few branches snapped under the humans’ feet as the Dalish moved silently. 

“He doesn’t have a Clan,” The Dalish accent held a tinge of sadness, “or at least not anymore. He was exiled six years ago. I’ve had no contact with him since.” The trio, well trio and a dog, stepped into the little clearing Tarasyl was watching. 

His heart twisted from more than just withdrawals. Renassan stood in full warrior armor, toffee colored hair tied back from his face. Bright blue eyes looked around the clearing, his Clan’s vallaslin for Ghilan’nain a stark deep azure contrast against his fawn colored tan. He was far older than Tarasyl remembered, taller with more muscle. For a brief moment, their eyes met though the humans had yet to find him in his perch. Easily those blue eyes shifted away to not draw attention to him. 

“What did he do to get exiled?” The other blond of the group asked. The shemlen had short hair with some stubble humans were so keen on growing around his chin. He was also a warrior by the looks of his shield and sword. Next to him was a black haired woman with an oak branch. A mage, if Tarasyl knew any better. His eyes narrowed, markings twitching at the thought of magic. 

“I don’t know,” Renassan answered, “I just remember my Clan and his telling me not to talk to him anymore and I had no more contact with him until a year ago.” He shrugged, scratching the dog’s head. He seemed to think about the consequences of telling the humans something. “About a year ago, I got a letter, no sender on it, just a location to send a reply. So I sent one, curious and Tamlen dared me to. A week later I got a reply saying to burn this after I read it and some other things.” 

“And you knew it was from your brother?” The woman asked skeptically. 

Renassan laughed, “I had a feeling, but I didn’t know know until about the fourth letter. It said ‘I don’t know if you remember me, but the name’s Tarasyl’inan. How’ve you been, brat?’” He chuckled, bringing a small smile to Tarasyl’s face. 

How long had it been since he had actually smiled? Long enough for him to have forgotten the strange light feeling in his chest didn’t mean he was high. He was happy, really happy. 

“So you kept communicating with him? Despite everyone telling you not to?” The human warrior asked. 

“He’s my brother,” was all Renassan offered. He turned to the trees again. “We’ll make camp here; he’ll find us when he wants to.” Tarasyl watched as they set up their tents and began a fire. Renassan was apparently on cooking duty as he was the one tending the fire while two other strangers entered the clearing. One a large bronze-skinned giant (Qunari, Tarasyl was sure of it) and a little red-haired priestess. 

He waited for the shadows of night to descend before he silently got out of his perch. The dog’s ears perked up, a low growl coming from his muzzle as he stared in the general direction of Tarasyl. The others all looked up, but of course could see nothing. 

“Tara?” Renassan called out, trying to see anything from the shadows. Even with his superior night vision, he saw nothing. 

Tarasyl grumbled, “I hate Abelasula for ever saying that around you, brat.” He materialized out of seemingly nothing, letting his markings become inert. Ren only grinned. It was the same stupid grin he had as a kid when Bela made him a flower crown. Somethings never changed. 

“I’ll stop calling you Tara when you stop calling me brat.” 

Tarasyl snorted, “When Fen’Harel shakes my hand, I’ll consider it.”

_

***** 

Morning came too soon for Tarasyl. And with it came the sound of twigs snapping under a boot. A shemlen sound. Tarasyl stilled his whole body, slowed his breathing. Carefully he turned his head to look through his blind’s weave. 

Below him was a shemlen with black hair. A strange cream colored robe wrapped around one shoulder, over an outfit with enough belts and buckles to be a kink scene. A staff hung on his back, so he was a mage then. The human was looking around as though to discover who had left the fire pit with still smoldering embers. 

Tarasyl’s fingers slowly slid a dagger out of its hidden place, inch by inch. His bow was in one of the branches above him with his pack. He had broken at least one bow sleeping with it, and hurt himself more times than he could count. 

The world seemed to stand still as the elf watched the human. He had to feel someone watching him. He had to. The human even looked back at the tree, but could only see branches. Tarasyl’s markings slowly bled out power, wrapping him in invisibility. 

He moved carefully, like a cat, out of his blind and gracefully dropped to the ground with no sound. Anders had theorized that different designs allowed for the ability differences in Tarasyl and Fenris. Fenris’s was more like the strength and endurance runes while Tarasyl’s was more the speed and stealth runes. The result was Fenris could throw that giant ass sword around forever, take more damage, and rip people’s heads off while Tarasyl could walk without a sound, hear and see far better than even an elf, and, of course, easily pickpocket people. 

Not that he was planning to pickpocket the human. His coinpurse was looking quite light. No. Tarasyl circled around him quietly. And when he was within range, he grabbed the mage’s arm, pulled it behind his back and put the dagger to his throat. 

“You lost there, Vint?” Tarasyl hissed in his ear. He had recognized the snake motif on his robe. Plus Tevinters liked their belts and buckles and spurs. 

“Well that’s certainly some way to greet people.” The man quipped unhappily. What now? He was going to get robbed blind? Joke’s on the bandit, he didn’t have any money. 

“Welcome to Ferelden.” 

“It’s no wonder everyone in the Imperium is just dying to come here.” Tarasyl snorted. At least the shem had a sense of humor. “If you are looking for coin, I have very little.” 

“Yeah you looked broke.” The human’s face looked like he had been insulted as he tried to glare back at Tarasyl. The elf kept himself hidden from his gaze though. Humans hardly ever took a knife-ear seriously. 

“So if you aren’t after coin, then should I expect to have my throat slit after we’ve exchanged witty banter? Or am I going to be flogged? Burned at the stake perhaps?” Tarasyl rose an eyebrow at the human. Most would be begging for their life with a knife to their throat. 

“You are a strange shem,” He mumbled. “And no, I just don’t like humans wandering around my camp.” The human furrowed his dark eyebrows and looked around. As if he was going to figure out where Tarasyl had come from. 

“I thought the place was abandoned, or perhaps a…Templar had been here.” The human lied smoothly. Tevinters were good at that. Make you think the sky was grass and the grass was sky. 

“Uh-huh.” Tarasyl rolled his eyes but pulled the knife away. His markings flared as the mage gathered his magic. The elf shadow stepped through him just as a flicker of lightning struck where he had been standing. “Too slow.” 

The mage looked behind him then in front of him just as Tarasyl returned into view. He had a stupidly stunned look on his moustached face. “How did you…” 

“Magic.” Tarasyl snorted. Technically he wasn’t wrong. “Leave and you get to keep all your teeth.” 

The human glared. “Well I can’t imagine why no one likes the Dalish.” It was Tarasyl’s turn to look stupidly stunned. “I’m not plebian.” The Tevinter hissed. It was kind of hard to miss the face tattoo, and even harder to not have heard of the Grey Warden. Prior to the Warden, most everyone he knew believed the Dalish to be a myth villagers told their children to make them behave. 

Tarasyl snorted again. He refrained from comment. “You’re looking for someone, aren’t you?” The elf guessed. The human had dodged around whom he thought the camp had belonged to. Plus, Tarasyl had learned a long time ago how to gauge reactions and pick out useful information. 

“And if I were?” The Vint challenged with narrowed eyes. 

“I’d tell you to move along.” The human eyed him like he was trying to solve a puzzle. His eyes lingered on the clasp over his left shoulder that held his cloak together. Two serpents twisted around each other, biting each other tails. Tarasyl had long worn the scale details away, but he hadn’t quite gotten around to making a new clasp altogether. The human seemed to draw some conclusion in his mind. “I would’ve left sooner had you not brandished a dagger at me.” 

Tarasyl gave a grin that was in no way friendly, flashing sharp fangs. “That’s how we Dalish say hello to shems don’t ya know?” 

***** 

Tarasyl sat in his tree, watching the Vint walk to the west. He bit off a piece of Dalish hardtack he still had. Strange human, was all he could think. Who oddly reminded him of Morrigan and Taliesin. The twins were perhaps the oddest shemlen he knew, and he knew two who were possessed. 

Maybe it was the arrogance. Tevinters had loads of it and so did the twins. He shook his head away from thinking about the shemlen. No good would come of it. He cracked his neck a few times, wiping the crumbs off his clothes and began gathering his things. 

After destroying his blind and removing evidence of his stay, he hefted his pack on his shoulder and headed towards a little horse farm he knew. But first a quick side trip to the Crossroads for fresh supplies. No way he was eating hard tack all the way to Orlais. Plus it might throw off anyone tailing him. 

Some might call that paranoia, but Tarasyl called it being smart…and a bit paranoid. But hey, when you are wanted in nearly every country for various reasons, paranoia came with the bounties. 

He wrapped his Mark on the way down; no need to spread hope and despair like a plague. At least not if he could help it. After all, he was an ass, but he wasn’t a dick. He snickered at his own joke. That was good. 

He heard shouting, instantly cutting his good mood to shreds. His heart panicked. A twisting ache sprang up in his chest, heart pounding too hard. The shouting echoed off the rocks, making it hard to pinpoint where it came from. But he’d hazard a guess it came from the refugee camp. 

Tarasyl sighed; of course, he couldn’t go a day without running into trouble. He just wanted to resupply. He looked up to the sky with a bitter look. He imagined the Creators behind their blue curtain and flipped them off. 

He’d just not get involved, he decided. It was shemlen political bullshit and civil wars and religious claptraps…he’d just ignore the stupidity and go on with his life as normal. That was the plan. Sadly Fen’Harel seemed to take extreme pleasure fucking with his plans. 

Two Templars were the cause of the shouting, brandishing blades at what looked to be the merchant. Refugees were cowering far away while a Revered Mother was trying to calm the situation. Apparently she didn’t know that the Templars around here were nothing more than lyrium depraved zealots with pointy objects and a shiny metal suit. 

“We know you are hiding them!” One zealot yelled. His blade shook. Yep, lyrium withdrawals. The elf had enough experience with drug withdrawals to see the signs: shakiness, paranoia, aggression… 

Tarasyl shifted his pack, readying the release on the wrist knives he kept. His bow was a comforting weight suddenly, not that he could use it in this particular fight. He was good, but not good enough to unsling it in a second. Still, its threat was there like a lover’s promise. 

“What? You ran out of mages to harass so now you branched out to refugees?” Tarasyl called out as he got closer. Everyone turned to him, his hood casting shadows on his face. The Templars turned to glare, ears no doubt prickling at his accent. 

Dalish weren’t uncommon here in the Hinterlands since Anora had granted them the ability to settle here. Not that many Clans did (none as far as he knew). But they could be in the open, trade freely without fear of shemlen. Sure there were still raids and unhappy racists, but most Clans were well-armed and smart enough to deal with it. Some might even come to the aid of the small hamlets. 

So he wasn’t unusual surprisingly. But he obviously was the only one besides the Templars to have a weapon and know how to use it. 

The two scanned behind him, no doubt looking for his Clan. Like a Clan would go were Templars ran amuck. They’d be hiding out in the forests where there were plenty of things to kill shemlen. 

“This is none of your business, rabbit,” One barked. Tarasyl frowned, tip of a fang poking out in displeasure. 

“Why do shemlen call us rabbits?” He grumbled quietly. It was quite obvious elves were predators rather than prey. Long, sharp canines were more for tearing flesh than chewing cud, large eyes to allow for night vision, large ears for better hearing, and their sense of smell was nothing to scoff at either. Alistair always joked that Ren and Tarasyl had better noses than the mabari, Falon. 

He ran his tongue over his teeth as he raised his chin, hood falling off, “I think it is my business, shem, I have things to trade and you are currently scaring the merchant half to death.” His eyes caught the slight shift in stance, the tightening of grips on hilts. He couldn’t see their faces, but he could guess they were smirking as one took a step forward. Probably hoping Tarasyl was the sort of elf to flinch. 

He wasn’t. 

A flick of the wrist released his dagger in his left bracer. Their eyes flickered down. “You seriously in a rush to meet that Maker of yours?” Tarasyl mocked. 

They stepped back into a fighting stance, the merchant fleeing with the Revered Mother. Tarasyl snorted, keeping his stance loose. His brands hummed lightly, a soft purple glow coming off them. Within a blink of an eye, he threw the dagger. 

Blood splattered from the Templar’s helmet. He didn’t even get to scream as the blade went through his eye into his brain. The elf’s white eyes moved to the other human, face devoid of any emotion. He reached up to his necklace. A part of the chain was a metal pendant, but he tugged at it and a small curved dagger detached. 

He spun it around his finger in a challenge. “Well, you want join your friend or move on to fight apostates another day?” The Templar looked down at his dead companion. His throat moved as he swallowed. He glanced back up at the elf. The hard stare of someone accustomed to battle stared back. 

The Templar took a step back. He apparently had no wish to die today. Tarasyl waited until the Templar disappeared from view behind the hill before turning his attention to the merchant. His face was ashen, body shaking as he crept back to his cart. 

“Thank you, if you hadn’t—“ The human started. 

“You can thank me by showing me your wares. I’ve got a long way to go and a short time to do it in.” 

***** 

\---Haven--- 

Leliana and Cassandra looked over the map again. Cullen rubbed his temples. How were they supposed to seal the Breach when the one person who stood a chance up and left? Cullen had argued they just go and get him back. If he wasn’t willing, there were perfectly good cells beneath the Chantry. 

Leliana, however (and surprisingly), was against such actions. Tarasyl could not only break out of those cells, but be gone without ever alerting the guards. Force was not the way to win the elf over, she said. Locking him up was like putting a collar back on him. 

So they were discussing ways to limit the damage, praying against all odds that the elf would come to his senses and help them close the Breach. It didn’t matter his reasons. “We could perhaps pay him,” Leliana suggested. Tarasyl did love money, if only to be able to get his next fix of Ether. Though, she amended, he had clear eyes when he was in the War Room. His hands didn’t shake, and he wasn’t as gaunt as he was when she first met him. In their examination of him while he was asleep, she had found no new track marks. A few new scars across his wrists, but no signs of Ether. 

“Pay the Herald of Andraste?” Cassandra snorted at how ridiculous that sounded. Josephine frowned at the suggestion. “And how would that look?” 

The door flew open, interrupting the talks. Charter rushed in with a charred piece of paper in her hands. Her face was grave as she looked at the Spymistress. Leliana straightened. “What have you found?” 

Charter glanced at the others, waiting for Leliana to nod her consent. “Well we searched for our messenger near the base. Harding found her not too far from the explosion, looked like she had survived long enough to drag herself towards Haven.” 

“And? The documents?” Leliana probed, her gut sinking. 

Charter swallowed before walking further into the room. She handed over the piece of paper she held. “We found only this on her.” Leliana carefully unfolded it. Her eyes went wide. Careful brush strokes crafted an elegant tree with a wolf face hidden in the branches. “The Phantom hit us.” 

***** 

Tarasyl took a deep breath, peaking around the corner. He watched the farmhands finish their evening chores, bringing in the Druffalo and horses, locking the corrals, etcetera. His brands hummed as they kept him hidden, people walking by the house he had broke into. Well, to be fair, the house was abandoned, so he hadn’t done anything wrong per say. 

He moved back into the house, taking out a piece of paper and some charcoal. He had sent off his letter to Ren back at the Crossroads after gathering his supplies. Now he just needed a good horse to get him to his destination. That he had no money to purchase such a horse was of little consequence. 

He carefully drew his calling card with an added ‘will return’ at the bottom. He hoped the horse would be returned anyway. It wasn’t like he was going to return it himself. That was just asking for the noose. 

No, he’d find a respectable stable, tell them he had found the horse wandering around, and knew of an Ferelden owner who was missing one of his horses. If they didn’t return it, it was on their conscience, not his. Plus anyone could see the brand on their rumps and figure out who it belonged to. 

When the last light was snuffed out for the night, Tarasyl gathered his things and crept out. The animals barely took note of him. His markings were quiet, achy. Falon, Ren’s mabari, had taught him it was the lyrium that alerted animals. They could hear or sense the hum they made when he used them. So he relied on his more natural stealth skills. His feet barely made any sound over the straw covered stone as he took some tack from the wall. He snatched a brush, filled a sack with grain before he looked over the stalls. They were all fine Ferelden horses, though they were no Hart. 

Tarasyl clicked his tongue softly, in the way halla herders did when approaching the herd. The animals stirred, shaking their heads and snorting. One simply ignored him. The other’s ears flicked forward, it staring at cat-like eyes. “Hey there, pretty thing,” he cooed as he stepped closer. “Want to take a trip? Stretch your legs a bit?” He held out some grain as an offering. The horse lipped it off his palm. 

Slipping the bridle over its head, Tarasyl gave the horse a nod. It was very quiet as he got it ready with his things. The plaque above the stall said, Sugarcane. He assumed that was her name. “Well, Sugar, let’s blow this turnip cart, hmm?” The mare pressed her forehead against his, blowing softly through her lips. He’d take that as a lead on. 

***** 

\---Haven--- 

A few days after discovering they’d been burgled, Leliana and Cassandra lit yet another set of candles in the War Room. They’d been at it for several hours now, getting no sleep as they poured over every bit of intelligence they had on the Phantom. Which, as the name would suggest, was very little. 

Mostly it was just bounties from various regions in Orlais and Nevarra. The Phantom preferred Orlais, hitting nearly every region. Of course, they had to weed through all the false claims such as the Phantom had stolen three chickens and a cow from some farmer. The Phantom seemed to be to blame for nearly every act of larceny in Orlais for the past seven months. 

And that wasn’t even beginning to scratch the number of assassination jobs that were connected to them. Many noble victims claimed the murderer to be the Phantom, but the calling card was never recovered or was a forgery. The Phantom might have just been a thief, but Leliana guessed they weren’t. 

The crimes were far too similar. No evidence of any forced entry, people were in the house when it happened yet no one saw anyone. The only difference was someone ended up dead rather than something missing. But the assassinations she could pinpoint as similar to the Phantom were far and few. 

She mused that the Phantom was a bard who was very skilled at the Game. Only certain things were taken, certain houses hit. Someone stood to gain behind them all. She was sure of it. But she couldn’t link the Phantom to one house, one patron. Which was troubling. 

A rogue bard could prove dangerous. Someone who’s loyalty is only to their self…she thought of Marjolene and tasted a sour note on her tongue. She was only surprised there hadn’t been more bloodshed. 

Yet even a rogue bard could be traced. Contacts would have to have been made, drop points established, etcetera. No such luck. No one would say they hired the Phantom, and Leliana’s agents could never find anything suspicious to link them to the thief. All ties were cut quickly and cleanly. 

It was infuriating. There had to be some piece of information they were missing. 

Minaeve took a deep breath, steadying herself. The air in the war room felt heavy, laden with tension. But the Hands of the Divine wanted her report as soon as she was done. They both looked to be tired, civility fraying at the edges. They had been up all night trying to figure out this puzzle. 

She opened her mouth and happened to glance down at the table. Her mouth clicked shut as she blinked at the picture. 

“What are you doing with the mark of the Harellan?” She asked aloud. Cassandra’s and Leliana’s heads snapped up in shock. They both blinked back at her. 

“What?” Cassandra asked. 

Minaeve pointed to the picture, “The Dalish use that mark for traitors…Well sorta the mark anyway.” Sure it was a wolf head in the branches of a tree, but the shape and the way some of the branches were drawn made her connect the two. Maybe it was a silly thing, she thought. Why would an Orlesian thief use a Dalish marking? “I shouldn’t’ve said—“ 

Leliana held up a hand. The elf shut her mouth. The Left Hand spun the picture around and stared at it. Flashes of an old friend whose face was marked with vallaslin: the vallaslin of Fen’Harel. 

\---Somewhere in Ferelden, 9:30 Dragon--- 

“So I’ve never seen a Dalish with that tattoo before, Tarasyl,” Alistair tactfully started. Ren rolled his eyes, sighing at how subtle the human could be. They were walking towards the Circle, figuring it was one of the closest. Plus there were a few of Loghain’s camps along the way that they could…happen upon. 

The tall elf (as tall as the human warrior at least) snorted. “You’ve seen every Dalish?” He spat back. 

“Well, no, but…” Alistair fumbled at the sight of nearly pure white eyes glaring at him. “It just seems unique…” 

“Oh, it’s unique alright. A unique kind of punishment,” Tarasyl sighed loudly. He fidgeted with his bandanna, the royale sea silk fabric matching his silvery appearance nicely. Bodahn had managed to procure it from a Denerim shop owner prior to being besieged by darkspawn. Renassan had agreed with the dwarf that it suited his brother quite well. That Dalish hunters often wore bandannas was a mere coincidence. 

“You brand your faces as punishment?” Here he thought they branded their faces for their gods. Tarasyl sighed, while Ren face palmed. 

“No, _dahn’direlin_ , when one is exiled, you are stripped of your vallaslin and given Fen’Harel’s.” 

Morrigan’s ears perked up at this. “He is your trickster god, is he not?” Renassan smirked. 

“Yeah, he is the Betrayer, the One Who Misguides,” the young Warden rambled off. 

“So why do you brand exiles?” Alistair looked to Tarasyl. The elf scratched his left cheek, hidden by his pale bangs. 

“Religiously because you are believed to be His agent or you are blessed by him or whatever. Practically, it’s a way to ensure all Dalish know you to be an exile, so they don’t take you in. Technically I’m not even a Dalish to them.” Tarasyl shrugged nonchalantly. His eyes though held pain and grief behind their glassiness. 

“What did you do though?” Renassan asked quietly. He had never heard the tale. You weren’t supposed to speak about a Harellan lest the Dread Wolf catch your scent. 

Tarasyl shook his head, still picking at his cheek. “I’d…rather not talk about it, brat.” 

\---Haven, Present--- 

Leliana cursed under breath, “Tarasyl.” Of course! Why didn’t she realize it sooner?! She thought the Phantom to be someone with a connection to the Conclave, to Orlais or a House or something. She’d even mulled over the possibility of it being a Tevinter since there were so many sightings around the hills of Redcliffe. 

But no, it was someone with no connection at all. Well, no good connection. 

This betrayal was bitter, twisting her heart. She supposed someone with the title Harellan couldn’t be trusted, friend or no. She clenched her jaw, heart becoming cold as steel and just as sharp. 

“Find the Herald.” 

***** 

The Seeker made a beeline for him with her ‘I want to punch something’ look on her face. Varric looked around frantically for a way out. But, no everyone scattered since her gaze was locked on him. 

“Could we speak with you, Varric?” Cassandra gritted her teeth as she spoke. Varric didn’t take that as a good sign. 

“Somehow, I don’t think I can say no…” Varric grumbled. He knew how this worked. The Seeker wanted to talk, so he had to talk. If he refused, he’d be stabbed in the book after being dragged to wherever she wanted to talk at. And he only had so many books. 

“You can always say no—“ 

“But I’ll be dragged off again,” He interrupted with a sigh. “Fine, what can I do for you, Seeker?” Cassandra shook her head and motioned for the Chantry. Every movement had an underlying tension to it, making them jerky. The dwarf looked at the building. He hoped there were witnesses in there…and that screams carried through those walls. He reluctantly followed her. The looks he got were ones prisoners got as they walked to the gallows. Surely he wasn’t going to be executed, right? 

They entered the war room, Cassandra shutting the door loudly behind him. Leliana was scanning the map with a murderous glare. If they were trying to find Hawke again, he wished them luck. He had Fenris with him, and the elf knew how to fly under the radar despite having magical glowing tattoos. 

Then Varric noticed several pins were littered around the Hinterlands and Ferelden. They were in a strange zigzag pattern and heading towards the Frostbacks. He furrowed his eyebrows. Hawke wasn’t in Ferelden… 

“What’s this about?” He asked warily. Leliana’s gaze flicked up to him once before she straightened. 

“Where is Tarasyl?” She asked fairly bluntly. 

“Flicker?” His eyebrows shot up in surprise. Yeah he was the Herald, but why would they want him with what looked to be murderous intent. “I don’t know—“ 

“Do not lie, Varric,” Cassandra barked, voice echoing around the room. The dwarf winced. 

He held up his hands, “I don’t know where he went,” he looked at Leliana. “What’s going on? I thought you let him go.” 

The Hands shared a look, debating whether or not to tell him. Perhaps if he understood the gravity, he would be more inclined to help…or he might withhold information. A double edged sword as it were. 

“He stole some…very important documents from the Conclave,” Leliana finally gave. Varric’s face dropped. 

“Shit, Flicker.” 

“Either he be persuaded to return them or we turn him over to the Chantry and Orlais.” Varric’s gut twisted. Tarasyl had a lot of crimes under his name, but he never knew him to mess intentionally with the Chantry. But why would they turn him over to Orlais? 

“Thievery is the least of the crimes ‘The Phantom’ has committed,” Cassandra muttered as though sensing Varric’s thoughts. The Herald was a Thief and Assassin; that was reason enough to condemn him for the Divine’s murder. He was wanted in Ferelden for stealing Loghain’s crown and the Tears of Andraste. The former was never recovered, but the latter was at least deposited at a Chantry. Only Leliana knew the Dark Wolf to be the Phantom, but it was easy to start rumors, and her word would be considered very seriously in a court. 

Varric scratched the back of his neck, “Look, I really don’t know where he went. We have a few set drop spots we use to keep in contact. I can send some messages to them, but if he is running from the Inquisition…” Which wasn’t smart. Who runs from something called The Inquisition? Wait, a thief with a lot of secrets…Nevermind. 

Leliana pointed to the markers, “We have many sightings of him. He passed through the Hinterlands, stole a horse, and seems to be heading into the mountains.” 

Varric stepped closer to examine the pins. Tarasyl was obviously zigzagging, trying to through pursuers off. But why head into the mountains? Most passes were closed or treacherous in the winter. And if he really was trying to go through the mountains, why not head to Honnleath instead of Redcliffe? He had been through that area before. 

Unless, he was hoping everyone would look for him in the mountains. His eyes travelled up along the path the elf seemed to be taking. 

An idea smacked him in the face. “Or the coast.” He looked up at the two women who blinked at him. “He’s heading north, but the only ways through the mountains are closed. So unless he plans to go through the Deep Roads, he’s heading for the Coast.” 

They considered this for a moment. “Is he going to the Free Marches then?” 

Varric shook his head, “The Phantom doesn’t operate in the Free Marches; no one would contact him there.” He tapped Orlais, “My bet is Orlais. It’s his busiest area, so people know how to contact him there.” He stopped and bit his lip. Was he just tying a noose around the elf’s throat? “I know one of his hideouts there.” 

“Good, let’s hope he hasn’t met his buyer yet.” Leliana nodded at Cassandra. 

“I’ll give you the location on one condition,” Varric steeled himself to be punched as the Seeker glared murder at him. “Let me talk to him. Flicker doesn’t get political, so he might just need coin or something.” He just hoped the something wasn’t Ether. 

“Or perhaps you don’t know your friend as well as you thought,” Leliana’s voice was hard, bitter. Varric met her gaze with a hard stare of his own. 

“Like you?” The Nightingale narrowed her eyes but the dwarf barely flinched. He was so getting punched after this. “I know Flicker. Human politics aren’t his thing.” 

Cassandra sighed, “If you think you can persuade him, it’ll be easier. But if you try to keep us from him…” She narrowed her eyes in warning. 

Varric held up his hands again, “I’d rather Flicker stay alive; he’s been through enough shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as you probably noticed, Tarasyl is very good at lying and makes for a very unreliable narrator. That's not to say he's smart. He stole from Leliana and didn't think she'd hunt him down...
> 
> I've worked very hard on the headcanons of this story, so of which were inspired by a few tumblr posts. Such as elves have sharp fangs and claws. I expanded upon it to include an ability to drink blood and heal. I've got the reasoning behind it, but I doubt many people care.
> 
> Also a side note, Varric withheld a great many details in his book, including the lyrium brands. Just an fyi for the next chapter.


	4. Hex and Lore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarasyl has the strangest contacts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative Title: Tarasyl fucked up. Bad.
> 
> Beta? What beta? Unless someone volunteers, this story will remain unbeta'd so if you see **major** errors like repeated words that shouldn't be, or weird sentences, tell me please.

Varric was pretty sure the trees were tripping him just to spite him. He briefly wondered if the elven soldiers they grew over were trying to protect one of their own. That thought sent a shiver down his spine. He had enough of spirits. 

By the time they reached the top of the hill, Varric was cussing under his breath. He could feel Cassandra glaring at the back of his head, as though he was doing this on purpose. 

“Should be…” Varric stopped to look around. He had never actually been in the Graves before. The elf had just described this particular safe spot once, so Varric could get messages to him when he occasionally left Kirkwall for Orlais. “A little further…I think.” 

“You think?” Cassandra growled. “You mean you’re lost?” 

Varric turned to glare back at her, “Not lost, just the elf’s directions weren’t all that clear.” 

“You’ve never been here before?” Solas asked as he looked around at the tall trees. 

“Well, no, but Flicker said it was in some old elven fort…bastion thing.” The dwarf looked around, trying to find something in that mess of green. There were lots of rock things underneath some of the trees…and he thought he saw some ruins further ahead. 

A flash of blue caught his attention. He squinted at the rock, thinking it was just some metal in the rock. No. He caught sight of a familiar little trail marker. “Ha! There!” he pointed to rock happily, “Elf light!” 

Cassandra furrowed her brows at the strange little symbol. It glowed a faint blue that was nearly impossible to see in the sunlight. “Elf light?” She questioned as they walked to the rock. 

“Flicker always called it that,” okay that was a lie. Tarasyl always called it something in elvish, something like _ghi’lalean_ or something. Guiding light. Hawke just jokingly called it ‘elf light’ and it stuck. “He’d crush up some glowing plants and mark the trees or rocks so we always knew where he went.” 

Solas bent down to look at the symbol. It was…not foreign to him like so many Dalish things. Instead, it was another example of how the Dalish took what little they knew and made due. The mark was one of direction, slightly modified no doubt from time. It meant ‘north’ or perhaps ‘ahead’. Normally it wouldn’t have been used save for trail markers or warnings. 

But history aside, he felt a hum in the mark. It was ever so faint, but there was magic in the mark. Just a trace. “Is the Herald a mage?” he asked as they began to follow the path of glowing marks. 

“Flicker?” Varric scoffed, “No…he just has some unique circumstances that let him disappear without a trace.” 

Solas glanced at the dwarf, “You mean the marks on his skin?” The dwarf paused for a brief moment before continuing on as though he hadn’t just sized the elf up. “The Mark was drawing power from them,” Solas started. 

“Right, that thing.” Varric muttered. 

“They seem to be pure lyrium, but to have it embedded in his skin…” The Herald either had to have a remarkable willpower or incredible luck. Maybe both, though the former would be strange in someone without magic. 

“Ask Flicker about them, Chuckles. That’s not my story to tell.” Varric gave as the fortress came into view. “There, see?” 

Cassandra looked at the ruin dubiously, having ignored that whole conversation. “You are sure he is here?” 

Varric chuckled. Sure? He was pretty sure they had tripped a dozen of the thief’s warning bells and the elf might have fled deep into the ruin. Not that he would tell the Seeker that of course. Instead, he pointed to the tied horse who was happily munching on grass outside. “Look there; looks like the horse Dennett reported stolen, don’t you think Seeker?” 

Indeed, the dappled grey had Dennett’s brand on her withers. But that didn’t mean the Herald was still inside. “Then let us go before he has a chance to flee further.” She growled. 

“Remember our deal, Seeker,” Varric grumbled back. He doubted the deal would last long since she was about ready to charge it seemed. “I get to talk to him first; if that doesn’t work out, then you can knock him unconscious, though I doubt he’d ever give you information afterwards.” 

Cassandra snorted as they headed for the entrance. The ruin was empty when they entered. Well, not empty in the sense of nothing there. An aravel lay to the west wall, sails mostly furled and stored. A fire pit still crackled with a dying fire. Dalish lanterns held a blue fire, casting the large entrance in an eerie blue glow. But no Phantom. 

“Flicker! You here?” Varric yelled as he walked to the aravel. He saw his normal pack just inside the entrance among some furs. 

“What do you want?” Came out of thin air. The hair on the back of their necks stood on end. Cassandra felt a familiar prickle of magic in the air, but it was off. Softer, but with more of a burn to the sensation over her skin, it reminded her of a Templar. Solas’s ears twitched at the low hum he could hear and feel. “I thought I was free to go.” 

The Seeker stepped forward as though to bark her answer. Varric beat her to it, “You are, Flicker, but the Seeker and Nightingale seem to be missing something important and think you might know where it went.” 

In a flurry of black smoke, Tarasyl’inan appeared at the entrance to another room. He was glaring, white eyes impossibly bright. His brands flickered slightly like flames as he crossed his arms. “And why would I know?” 

Varric glared up at Cassandra until she didn’t look like she was about to lunge at him. Only then did he step forward. His look was worried, which didn’t help Tarasyl not feel even more panicked. “They know, Flicker. They found your little mark where the documents were.” 

Tarasyl narrowed his eyes at the dwarf. They held an accusation in them. “I don’t know what you are talking about, Varric,” he replied smoothly. Cassandra pulled out the piece of paper he did know about, showing him the mark he had drawn so much he would unconsciously doodle it. “That’s the Phantom’s mark, so?” 

Varric almost laughed at how well the elf was dodging things. He was a professional through and through it seemed. 

“You are the Phantom,” Cassandra hissed, quickly growing tired of his little games. 

Tarasyl snorted like that was unbelievable. “What makes you think that? Moreover, all of Orlais is hunting that person, how can you be so certain you know who they are when an entire nation can’t even get a lead?” 

“Orlais did not ask a Dalish what the mark looked like to them,” she countered. There was a slight furrowing of his pale eyebrows before it smoothed back into a neutral look. “If they had, they’d have figured out how this looks to be awfully similar to your tattoos.” 

“So on the basis that that mark looks like my vallaslin, I’m a criminal? Gee, thanks.” Tarasyl growled, looking to be insulted at such an accusation. 

“Flicker, the game’s up. All we need is those documents back, and we’ll be on our way,” Varric tried again. The elf ran his tongue over his teeth as he stared at a spot on the wall. 

Tarasyl’s heart beat a thousand times per minute. His brands burned as he struggled not to just turn invisible and run. He was pretty sure he was going to be clapped in irons even if they got those papers back. His stomach twisted. But why did they want them back? What were they exactly? 

He never bothered to look or ask. After all, it was easier to deny involvement or malicious intent if the thief never knew what it was he was stealing. Much like it was better for an assassin to know very little about his mark. Now though, he was kind of worried. 

“Well, I don’t know where they are,” Tarasyl turned towards them. He wasn’t lying, technically. Cassandra growled and took a step forward. “And even if I was the Phantom and had stolen your papers, I would’ve already made the drop if I were them.” 

“You are caught and you still deny?” Cassandra growled. Solas was slightly impressed by how easily the young thief was dodging questions and never admitting anything. Reminded him of himself when he was still quite young and a troublemaker. He could recall a few times where he had gotten caught with something he shouldn’t have. 

“A professional never admits guilt nor innocence,” Tarasyl gave a smirk that was no more than a flashing of fangs. A subtle warning to the warrior that she was backing a predator into a corner. 

Varric sighed, knowing the thief would never straight up tell them. So he decided to play along, if only to keep Cassandra from strangling him. “Well, if you were the Phantom, where would you make a dead drop like that?” 

Tarasyl’s eyes slid to him. “It wouldn’t matter; I would’ve done the drop and collected payment the moment I hit Orlais. The papers would’ve been picked up by now.” 

“Who’s the buyer?” Cassandra hissed, stepping forward again. 

Tarasyl merely shrugged. When the Seeker took another step forward, Varric watched as the elf’s hand went up to the seemingly innocent necklace he wore. The metal peeked out from underneath the bandana. To any other person, the action might have seemed just a reflex. To Varric it meant the Seeker was about one-step from a knife coming at her. 

“In that sort of line of work, Lady Punches Bears,” Tarasyl spat at her, “snitches usually end up unemployed and dead.” The two stood within feet of each other, glaring like old sworn enemies. Varric’s eyes flickered between the two, trying to think of some way to get his friend out of this. Especially since the elf wasn’t doing that on his own. 

“Look, Flicker,” He started, “the truth of the matter is unless we get those documents back, the Seeker here is going to have you tried for the murder of the Divine.” Honesty was the best policy, right? 

Tarasyl’s eyes narrowed, never once leaving Cassandra. “The murder of the Divine? How the hell do you get from stealing a piece of paper to killing a shemlen priestess?” That was a mighty big leap if you asked him. 

“And you have taken assassination jobs before,” Cassandra spat. 

“Yeah and so has your Left Hand.” 

Varric winced at the comeback. “You aren’t helping yourself, Flicker.” 

Tarasyl looked over at him finally. “I did nothing wrong, Varric.” 

“No, of course not, that’s why you have the Right and Left Hand of the Divine hunting you across Thedas. You left that piece of paper, Nightingale figured it out, and now the Seeker wants your head on a silver platter. What part of that are you not getting?” 

“The part in which stealing a stupid piece of paper means this much to someone,” Tarasyl’s voice echoed off the stones as he finally lost all thoughts. His head was spiraling. His heart hammered in his chest. He struggled to comprehend any of this. It was one thing to be caught doing something you actually did, but another thing to be accused of doing something you didn’t. 

He tried to think of escape routes. If he could turn invisible for five, no three minutes he could lost them in the ruins. One part of the place opened up with plenty of nooks and crannies. Ones he had explored thoroughly, collecting artifacts and old weapons, which he would pass to a contact to see back to a Dalish Clan. Though his contact usually kept the weapons. 

He took a step back, his markings beginning to flare. He saw the Seeker’s hand tighten on her sword’s hilt. His heart suffocated him, sheer panic starting to rise. She was literally going to kill him for some stupid piece of paper. He supposed he deserved it; he did steal it after all, and some people would just have his hands cut off. At least this way, it was over in one strike. Still he doubted she’d kill him there. She’d probably make a show of it, parade him through Val Royeaux, hang him or draw and quarter him… 

Bile started to churn in his stomach. He really need to stop thinking about how he was going to die. 

“You don’t even know what you stole?” Cassandra growled. How was he the best thief in Southern Thedas? Was it because of his neutrality? Or did he just play dumb every time someone asked questions? 

“A good thief never asks too many questions,” Varric answered for him, stepping in between them. “Seeker, seriously I’m being to wonder if all your interrogations end up with bloody lips.” She glared down at the dwarf. 

That was when those markings flared and the Herald disappeared in a cloud of black smoke. Magic thickened the air. It spread with the smoke, crawling over her skin. He had to have a mage or be a mage to have disappeared so quickly. 

Cassandra turned her head this way and that, searching for some sign of him. All she got was the sense of magic. Solas seemed surprised, he too listening for a sound. None came. “Interesting,” he whispered. The Seeker was less amused. 

She closed her eyes for a moment, drawing from her training. If he was a mage, or had one hiding, she’d be able to feel their magic. She didn’t hear a mage’s wavering magic, no spell filled the air leaving behind a residual trace. No, what she felt was the metallic punch of lyrium, the slight hum inside a Templar, but with a strange resonance. Like a hedge witch’s charm, or a rune. 

Still she reached out to it, hoping to burn away whatever charm he had used. It was trickier and usually resulted in the rune or charm being destroyed, but he was not escaping. Once her mind touched the charm, a scream pierced the air. 

The Herald flickered into view, white flames licking along some of his brands. Bright, white, hot pain shot through him. He could feel the needle pressing into his skin, branding him with liquid fire. His vision turned fuzzy as he hit the ground. He tried to breathe against the pain, unsure if the screaming was his memories or his present. 

“Shit!” faded through his consciousness. Tarasyl curled up on his side as the flames stopped. His body shook, all his muscles tensed. His heart stuttered. Tears fell from his eyes as he managed to close his mouth. His jaw twitched from how tight he held it. 

The air was cold around him, every slight breeze agony. Boots appeared in his vision, then Varric’s face. He was talking, but Tarasyl couldn’t get himself to understand what he was saying. For a moment, a different face appeared. A pair of narrow, deep sapphire eyes, ones that held no kindness in their watery gaze, stared at him from underneath coppery auburn bangs. They watched him as though to see if he was still lucid enough for more “play.” Tarasyl could feel the gag in his mouth. 

He tried to squirm away, but pain only lashed along his body. Hands grabbed him. He damn near jumped out of his skin. “NO! Don’t touch me!” He screamed, surprised to be able to speak with the gag. 

Then a gentle touch was placed upon his temple. A soothing cold radiated from it. It spread a numbness throughout his body. Slowly his eyelids began to close as his body floated. When Tarasyl’s body relaxed, Solas lifted his hand. 

“That should keep him down for an hour or so,” the bald elf stated as Varric looked at him skeptically. He then began to examine the white markings over the Herald. Cassandra hesitated coming closer. She did not know what had happened exactly. 

“Is that lyrium in his skin?” She asked quietly. Her stomach churned, and not from using her gifts. Varric glared up at her for a second before he looked behind him at the aravel. He spied the old pack his friend always carried. Quickly he went to it and dug inside. A small jar sat on the bottom, smelling of elfroot, mint, and various other herbs. He grabbed it and went back to the prone elf. 

“Here this might help,” He handed the healer the pot. Solas took off the lid. He was impressed. Whoever made this put a great deal of thought into it. “Anders made it for Flicker and Broody, said it was supposed to numb the brands.” 

“He certainly knew what he was doing,” Solas gave. Of course, he could think of ways to tweak the salve, but it was a good recipe. Elfroot to heal and soothe, aloe vera as well, mint and embrium to numb. He rubbed a dab of it on the Herald’s marked hand. 

The Mark flickered and sputtered, making the lyrium lines light up faintly. The skin was puckered and red around the pale lavender marks, like they had been freshly burned. “I don’t think the dispel caused any permanent damage to our Herald, but he might be sore for a few days.” 

Varric looked at the jar. It was almost empty. “And that’s probably his last jar of that stuff,” he sighed. 

“I can no doubt make more of it, Master Tethras.” Solas began to undo some of the armor straps to see where else the dispel hit. It was primarily focused on around the Mark, no doubt from the magic inside of it. Cassandra bent down, looking at the marks. 

She had just thought they were Dalish tattoos. Yet up close she could see old golden tattoos over his face, mimicking, in a Dalish way, a wolf’s visage. Over those were the pale purples of the lyrium. 

“Who would brand lyrium into someone’s skin?” She asked aloud. Her eyebrows furrowed in disgust. Lyrium drove anyone mad by drinking it. Templars included. It burned like liquid fire she was told. To have it in your skin… 

“Apparently magisters can do a lot worse than blood magic to people,” Varric said quietly. “And what happened to letting me talk to him, Seeker?” He glared at her from the corner of his eye. 

She returned the glare. “You were getting nowhere fast, Varric.” 

“Maybe if you hadn’t have jumped in with your sword, he wouldn’t have run and you wouldn’t have needed to dispel him.” 

“I did not know he had lyrium in his skin,” Cassandra growled. “You failed to tell me that, among other things.” Solas wisely kept out of the argument, focusing on healing as much of the damage as he could. He almost envied Tarasyl for being unconscious. 

Varric rolled his eyes. Of course he didn’t mention lyrium branded elves. That was just screaming for bounty hunters to hunt them down. Fenris may have killed his master, but he doubted the hunters cared. He’d fetch a pretty penny in the slave markets. And Flicker…well he wasn’t as free as Fenris. 

“Well what in the Maker’s name did you think was happening? He was using magic?” Varric scoffed. 

Cassandra narrowed her eyes, “Hedge witches use powerful charms and runes that give off similar auras, Varric. I can disrupt those as well.” Varric sighed. 

“Next time we are leaving you at camp when investigating leads.” 

***** 

Tarasyl woke a few hours later. His body was heavy, his marks almost twitching with pain. But there was a soothing coldness around them. Slowly he opened his eyes. He was still in the ruin, in his aravel to be specific. Outside his fire flickered and crackled. Two angry voices went back and forth, echoing around the stones. He groaned, shifting to his back on the furs. 

“Ah, good to see you awake, da’len,” made him jump. He looked around in front of him before leaning his head back to stare wide eyed at the bald elf. Solas chuckled at the doe eyed look. “I was afraid I made that spell too potent.” 

Tarasyl sat up to look at him without him being on the ceiling. “Spell?” Great more mages casting spells on him. And a sleeping spell to boot! Just what he needed to watch out for now! A spell that could make him fall asleep! 

“You feel very little pain asleep, and you are less likely to bite me,” Solas gave a knowing look. The Herald had tried to bite him when he was semi-lucid after he fell out of the Fade. Only if he touched one of the brands, but he still received a few bite marks as a thank you. 

Tarasyl gave an uneasy chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Reflex. Sometimes that was the only thing I could do to get them to stop.” When Solas tilted his head curiously, he plowed on, not wanting to explain anything. “Why are you in here? Who’s yelling?” 

Solas looked to the entrance of the small aravel, a mere blanket at the moment. “I was applying some more salve to your brands while the other two argue about if you should be taken to Val Royaeux or Haven.” 

Tarasyl’s heart dropped. He swallowed despite his dry throat. His face drained of color. So this time he really was going to die. After all, he couldn’t tell them what they wanted even if he wanted to. He had no idea where the papers could be now. Shivera never really explained what they were or what her plans were. Granted, Tarasyl never really asked…for obvious reasons. 

“I do not think you have much to worry about, _Herald_ ,” Solas stated calmly as he began to clean up the herbs and jars he had about him. “Even the Seeker realizes we need you to close the Breach.” 

Tarasyl snorted. “Great, I get recruited no matter what and most likely at the end of it all, my head comes off.” He sighed, raising a hand to run through his hair. Chains rattled. He blinked, looking at his wrists. Iron cuffs encircled his wrists, bound together by a thick chain. He hung his head. He really was caught. 

Solas watched as the young elf’s shoulders slumped. The life seemed to fly out of him as he stared at the cuffs. He doubted the young man had pleasant memories involving handcuffs, judging from the scars around his wrists. 

“Perhaps if you could find the Seeker her papers, she would be less inclined to setting you on fire.” 

Tarasyl looked up at Solas. His eyes were dull now, any fight or wit he had disappearing. He just looked tired. The weight on his wrists reminded him he never really was free. He was still hunted by the magister’s sons, he was hunted by Orlais, he had barely escaped a drug’s hold for June’s sake. 

“I don’t know where they are, what they are, or who has them now. I’m just the thief, I’m not paid to know all the details.” He sighed to himself. The argument outside had ceased. He knew they were listening to him, so he said, “Look if I’m going to die, can I have a last request?” 

Varric pulled back the blanket, revealing him and Cassandra just outside the aravel. The dwarf looked at his friend with a pained expression. It was like the elf had given up…again. 

Before either of them could respond, “I’d like to see my mother one last time.” 

***** 

Tarasyl lead his horse through the brook, Cassandra on one side and Varric on the other. He was quiet as he lead them up the hill painted with telltale Dalish paintings. It was peaceful up there. The trees below didn’t cover the area in green shade, so the sun played in the waters. 

He looked up at a little ledge that overlooked much of the forest. A small tree stood with a little rock pile beneath it. Its leaves were a pretty pink, its bark a pretty silver. He dropped his reins as he looked at the tree. 

“We’re here.” He state quietly. Cassandra blinked, seeing no sign of inhabitants save the Orlesian chateau not far away. Yet the elf went to the tree and got onto his knees. She had heard that Dalish honor their dead with trees over their graves. 

Tarasyl gently cleaned away the leaves on the rock pile. He reached into his pack and withdrew a little wood statue. A wolf, howling at the sky with an owl upon its back, stood on a little base. He placed it on the pile. 

“Told you I’d come back,” He whispered. He knew that both his mother and sister could not hear him anymore, but it brought comfort to talk to them still. He liked to think that the birds might hear him and carry his words to them in the Beyond. Wishful thinking, but it was all he had at times. “And I even finished your present.” 

Varric smacked the Seeker’s arm. When she looked down at him, he motioned with his head for them to leave the elf with some privacy. The trio walked a small distance away, far enough they couldn’t hear him talk, but still could see him. 

Tarasyl swallowed as his throat became thick and dry. “Sorry I haven’t been coming lately. I’ve been…well getting into trouble, of course,” he gave a dry chuckle. He closed his eyes. He could imagine his mother’s and sister’s spirits appearing next to the tree. His mother would sigh and shake her light blonde head, but her dark blue eyes would still hold all the love in the world for him. Abelasula would laugh and roll her identical eyes. 

“Thing is…” He could feel tears starting to form in his eyes. “I don’t think I’ll be coming by anymore. You always knew I’d end up getting myself killed if I didn’t keep my hands to myself, Bela, and well…you were right.” He opened his eyes, a few tears falling to his cheeks. He gave a sad smile to the tree. “I went and took something I shouldn’t’ve and now every shem in Thedas wants me dead.” 

Tarasyl remembered his mother’s gentle and patient smile. Whenever he got a scuffed knee or a small cut, she was there with a hug and a kiss to make it all better. When people called him Fen’Harel’s child, she would tell him that there was no wolf in the world who could take him from her. But then when he was four, she disappeared and never came back. 

“I guess the Wolf finally got me, Mamae.” He never listened to anyone after his mother was gone. He got into trouble a lot. His Clan said it was because Fen’Harel had stolen his soul from the Creators before he was born. They tolerated him because of Abelasula, but he never did much of anything right. He couldn’t hunt, he couldn’t herd or track. He could barely craft. Some of the hahrens said he’d be better off dead. Now they were getting their wish. 

Tears were starting to flow freely, his voice thick. He blinked, trying to clear his eyes against all his memories of his family. “So, I guess, this really is goodbye. I’ll see about asking Ren to come take care of your grave from time to time. He’s just really busy with the cure for the Taint and all, so I don’t know if he’ll have time to come here a lot.” 

He stood and wiped at his cheeks. He gave the shrine one last look before heading to the others in the shade. Silently he grabbed Sugar’s reins. “I’m ready now.” He swung into the saddle and waited as Cassandra bound his cuffs to the saddle. The others were quiet as they too mounted. 

It wasn’t until they were back down into the forest, on the path, that someone spoke. “When did she die?” Solas asked gently. 

Tarasyl sniffed, looking down at his horse’s neck. “When I was four. No one told me or my sister until I was much older and was going to meet our half-brother for the first time.” Tarasyl had no idea why he was even talking about this, let alone telling it to some man he didn’t really know. Yet, he felt at ease around Solas. 

“She had just disappeared one day. Apparently, she had gone to meet with the Keeper of another Clan, father of my brother, and bandits attacked them. She was okay, but he was killed. She stayed alive long enough to give birth to Renassan and then just…went into the forest and never came back.” One of the two people who believed he was just fine how he was, loved him despite his flaws, and she just abandoned him without even a backward glance. 

“But it’s fine, my father was still around and he took me and my sister in. Well until she died and I got exiled.” He shrugged like it didn’t matter. 

“I’ve never heard of the Dalish exiling their people before,” Cassandra stated. 

“It doesn’t happen often. Most crimes you get beaten or pay a fine or something. Bad crimes usually end up with you dead, but sometimes they are a bit more cruel and you get branded Harellan.” 

“You have laws inside the Clan?” She asked. It was amazing how little anyone knew of the Dalish. Tarasyl snorted. 

“We aren’t barbarians, Lady Punches Bears,” He snapped. “Every Clan has laws, some set by all the Dalish and others are Clan specific. The formers are created at the Gathering of Clans, where they are debated and refined by the Hahrens. Major disputes between people are also settled there…like your shemlen courts I suppose.” 

Solas made an impressed sound. He would never have guessed the Dalish would have that much order being they were scattered to the winds. “And what are crimes punishable by exiling?” he asked. He, also, had never seen a Dalish marked with his own vallaslin before. 

Tarasyl frowned. “Not a lot. Usually things that affect the whole Clan badly…Like stealing some of the halla to sell to shemlen for gold. Most don’t think about those kind of things. The Clan is our whole world usually, and shemlen gold means little, but there have been a few.” 

“Did you steal halla for gold?” 

Tarasyl slowly shook his head. “My crime should’ve gotten me killed, but I guess there was enough doubt that my Hahrens elected for me to be exiled instead.” He always wondered why he had been exiled rather than killed. Did they somewhat believe his story? Or was it because they truly believed him to be Fen’Harel’s agent, and thus it was only natural for him to be evil? If that was the case, why didn’t they just kill him? One less Dread Wolf foothold in the world. Maybe they just thought Fen’Harel made him do it, that since his soul belonged to the Wolf, he couldn’t help himself. 

He shook his head against the thoughts again. Didn’t really matter much anymore did it? “Anyway, it was a long time ago and I’m sure they are quite happy to be rid of me.” He knew his father was. His cheek gave a small twinge of pain in memory of his father’s parting words…or well punch. Gauntlets hurt like hell by the way. 

Solas furrowed his eyebrows. “Why do you say that?” To him, he was looking at a young man who had survived more than his fair share in life, and yet had been beaten down so much. It was like he truly believed he was worthless. And for what? Because the Creators said so? Because his people twisted what history they knew and hid behind superstitions? 

Tarasyl shook his head. “Why do you care so much, Hahren?” He asked, not in a spiteful tone, but just a tired one. “You made it pretty clear you don’t like the Dalish much, why do you care about our traditions?” 

Solas snorted, “True enough; I am just trying to understand your particular way of thinking.” 

“Why bother? I’m a dead man once you guys figure out how to make my hand work.” He motioned up to the sky towards the Breach. “Good luck with that by the way. I don’t even get how it works.” 

Cassandra rolled her eyes, “Solas believes that a second attempt might succeed provided we have more power.” She paused to look at the Herald. He was still melancholy, slouched over in the saddle. “The same level of power used to open the Breach.” 

Tarasyl looked over at her in disbelief. So that’s how he was going to die. They were going to power up the glowy thing to the point that it exploded, closed the Breach and killed him in the process. More or less. So he was what? Going to be stored in the Chantry dungeons while they search for some way to get that much power? Awesome he just loved jails and their moldy beds and leaky roofs. 

“You guys are bat shit crazy aren’t you?” He scoffed. “Fine whatever, murder me by my own hand, whatever fixes your problems, I guess.” 

“It shouldn’t kill you,” Solas reassured him, “your mark is stable now, and should remain so even if you closed the Breach.” Tarasyl cocked an eyebrow at him. 

“Last time I checked, no one had this mark before, so we don’t know what it’s going to do, or do you know something I don’t?” Solas chuckled at how skeptic Tarasyl was being. Smart boy. 

“I did spend many days studying it after all.” 

Tarasyl snorted again. “You have weird hobbies.” 

***** 

Much of the conversation died down as the sun began to descend. And the with the death of conversation came the rise of the gloom. The forest didn’t help matters. 

It was just eerie, freaky, and downright spooky when the sun went down. The trees loomed like giant sentinels. Somewhere they could hear an actual giant making their weird noises. And Varric kept thinking about all the stories Merrill had told him of Sylvans or the ones about this forest being the resting place of the Emerald Knights. 

He already swore the trees were making their roots trip him when he was on foot. Now he was thinking they were moving closer together to box them all in. “Why did you have to pick the creepy forest for a base?” He grumbled as they were setting up camp. 

“To fuck with you, and in hopes you all get squashed by a jealous tree,” Tarasyl snapped. He wasn’t exactly very happy with the dwarf right now. He did lead the Inquisition right to Tarasyl, and he did basically confirm that he was the Phantom of Orlais…Granted he was trying to make sure his friend didn’t end up dead, but still said friend was not in a good mood. 

“Can trees even get jealous?” Varric scoffed. Sure both Flicker and Daisy made jokes about jealous trees, but were they just an inside Dalish joke? 

Tarasyl rolled his head to the side to stare at him with the deadest stare in the history of dead stares. “I met a tree who rhymed, Varric. It lost its acorn to a crazy old hermit who asked a lot of questions. It wanted its acorn back.” 

Varric and everyone stared at him, unsure of where he was going with this. “…So?” 

“If a tree can talk, if they can move and kill you, I think they are allowed to be jealous too.” The elf got an evil smirk, “Plus with the Veil so thin, I bet lots of spirits could possess one at any time.” 

Varric sighed, that didn’t comfort him. He liked it better when trees were just trees. Now he had to worry about some spirit possessing a tree and stomping on him when he was asleep. He groaned. He wanted his city back. 

“You met a rhyming tree?” Solas asked as he started the fire. 

“Called itself the Grand Oak,” Tarasyl shrugged. “It was in the Brecilian Forest during the Blight. It’s a really long story…and the tree was the nicest thing in that forest by the way. Gave us a branch, which I planted later.” He pointed behind him as though to say his mother’s grave. 

“You took a branch from a talking magic tree and planted it over your mother’s grave?” Varric scoffed. “Does that not seem a bit odd to you?” 

The elf shrugged, “No. Grand Oak was fine with it when I told it that was what I wanted to do. Said something about him liking the idea of seeing more of the world. Not too sure if it really can, but hey whatever at least I know if some stupid shem tries to disrupt their grave, they’d get smacked.” He rather liked the idea himself. 

Varric shook his head at his friend. Only he would find it okay to plant a sylvan for a grave marker. "Elves." 

Tarasyl laid down on his section of the ground as the others started to pitch tents and cook dinner. His stomach growled at the smell of cooking food. He hadn’t been able to make it to a town to buy food before the Inquisition caught up with him, thus he was just as hungry as he was when he left the Inquisition, if not more so. 

Varric looked over his shoulder at the elf’s back. Tarasyl had put on weight when he was living with Hawke, the good kind of weight. Before, he was a mess of bones and skin. Now though, he had lost a lot of it in the last year. 

“When was the last time you ate?” He asked suddenly. 

The elf remained silent. Tarasyl didn’t want to answer the worry in the dwarf’s voice. Varric always did have a bad case of mother hen. He even paid a lot of people to not mug Merrill on her trips through Darktown at night. The dwarf certainly had a heart of gold and Tarasyl sometimes worried he’d end up breaking it. 

After all, he was the least deserving person he knew for that kind of worrying. 

“Flicker,” Varric started, then paused, trying to think of another question. “Why did you accept this job in the first place?” Cassandra looked up from her tent-making at the question. Varric cocked an eyebrow at her. “You said you liked to stay away from politics.” 

“I have to be able to buy food somehow and with the wars going on, not a lot of jobs to choose from.” Tarasyl answered quietly. They at least needed to know he didn’t steal their damn papers out of spite. “Doesn’t change anything though.” 

Varric didn’t say anything, but gave a smug look to the Seeker. He told her Flicker didn’t really care about what was in the documents, so this wasn’t some sort of conspiracy. She made a disgusted noise and went back to making the tents. 

Dinner came and went. Tarasyl refused to eat. Varric and Solas both tried, and the stubborn elf still wouldn’t touch the food. He was starving, but he would rather just sulk. Well to be honest, Tarasyl was pretty sure he’d throw up whatever he ate. He tended to do that when he was stressing. And judging by the massive ache in his shoulders, he was stressing bad. 

Plus, he didn’t feel like doing much else but lying down staring out into the forest. Death loomed over his head, pressing down and making sure it would be too much effort to sit up. Eventually everyone else went to sleep too. Except for Cassandra, she stayed and kept watch. 

Tarasyl could feel her watching his back in the firelight, as though he had the energy to run. His brands still hurt and were pretty much dormant the whole day, so he couldn’t exactly just disappear. Plus, she’d just dispel them again. He wasn’t sure, but he could guess that being dispelled multiple times was going to be bad for his health. 

Sleep had almost managed to claim his mind when he heard footsteps behind him. Years of being hunted, jolted him awake. His ears flicked back to listen, his heart stuttering. 

“I am sorry for dispelling you. I did not know you had lyrium in your skin,” Cassandra spoke quietly as she knelt down behind him. 

“It’s not something I like advertised,” Tarasyl grumbled. 

The Seeker snorted, “No I suppose you wouldn’t.” She paused, taking note of the slave brand on the back of his neck. You wouldn’t be able to see it had that bandanna not have shifted up and his hair be laying normally. Yet, it was clear as day, a literal brand of dark scars. “My trainers often told me: ‘Cassandra you are too brash, you must think before you act,’” she started. 

“You must have been the model student then,” Tarasyl quipped. “Really paid attention to those lessons.” 

She narrowed her eyes at his back. “I see what must be done and I do it. I see no point in running around like a dog chasing its tail. But I misjudged you, slightly.” She waited for a jib, but received only silence. “I thought you a murderous thief who only cared for money, but I see you have been pushed to this life.” 

Tarasyl scoffed, “If that’s how you can sleep at night, sure.” She was trying to find some sort of light inside him. Some sliver of hope that he was indeed Andraste’s Herald. He knew that whatever good he had in him had died a long time ago. Drugs and slavery tend to do that to a person. 

“You do not think that had you been given any other option—“ 

“Nope.” Tarasyl interrupted. He had always been good at stealing, much to Abelasula’s dismay. If you were going to do a job, you might as well pick a job you were good at. 

Cassandra huffed loudly, the elf once again trying her very thin patience. So she switched tactics. “You say you want to stay out of this, but you are already involved.” 

“Not by choice I might add.” He grumbled. 

“I can be harsh, I know, but I was wrong, perhaps I still am. But I will not pretend that you aren’t exactly what we needed when we needed it,” she repeated her same words, hoping they would sink in. “Help us fix this before it’s too late,” Cassandra finished. She held out her hand so that even with his bound hands he could shake it. The elf looked over his shoulder at her hand. 

Tarasyl looked up at her, “What you want, Seeker, is everything I’m not,” he spat. She blinked at the look in his eyes before he turned from her. 

What was there wasn’t anger; it was hopelessness. Behind his eyes was the look of someone who had been beaten down for so long, they had stopped standing back up. A person who had been told they were worthless so often, they believed it. 

She sighed softly to herself. It would take a great deal of time to convince him he was exactly what they needed even if neither of them knew exactly what they needed. 

***** 

Another day was spent trekking through the dense forest. Varric was beginning to wonder if the Seeker knew how to get out of the trees. It all seemed the same to him. And the silence that descended on their merry group wasn’t helping the eeriness of the place either. 

Not even he could get Tarasyl to talk. The elf had resigned himself to die and there was little the dwarf could do to help his friend out of his own noose. Solas tried a few times to ask Tarasyl questions about various things, but he’d only get despondent shrugs as the thief stared down at his mount’s neck. 

The depressing mood continued as they sat down around the fire in the evening. Varric tried once again to get Tarasyl to eat. 

“Come on, Flicker,” He held out the plate with charred rabbit, “I know elves are supposed to be slight, but you are pushing skeletal right now.” The elf turned his head to the forest. His eyes were glassy, unfocused. For a moment, Varric worried he was high on the Ether. 

“Afraid the rope wouldn’t snap my neck quick enough, Varric?” Tarasyl snorted. Varric hid the grimace he wanted to make at the jab. Yeah, he did lead Cassandra to him, but it wasn’t his fault the elf was so stubborn. Had he just given the Seeker what she wanted, they wouldn’t be here. They’d be on their merry way looking for whoever ordered the hit. 

“Right now, I’m worried you’ll pass out in the saddle soon,” Varric dodged smoothly. 

“A death here or a death there, doesn’t really matter, does it?” 

Varric sighed loudly again. The doom and gloom was very tiring, and dangerous. You couldn’t save someone who didn’t want to be saved. Hawke had said that. The elf had to want to live himself, and that wasn’t going to happen. 

Tarasyl saw Varric leave the plate beside him before he took his place on the log near the fire. It wasn’t that he was mad at him, though it probably seemed that way. His tongue had a tendency of becoming sharp when he was upset. Defense mechanism honed after years of burying every emotion under masks. 

He was just…resigned. He was facing death, the noose, and he wasn’t scared. He just kept reliving every mistake he ever made. Did everyone see their life go before their eyes like a terrible play? He had to say, his life was a walking disaster. Fen’Harel enasal indeed. 

Rationally, he knew he should feel some fear at his death. Yet he couldn’t. He just felt a sort of relief that maybe the play would finally end and he could do something right for a change. That would be a plot twist. 

A flicker of light in his peripheral caught his attention. His head snapped to the side. He eyebrows furrowed as his eyes adjusted to the blackness of the forest. Cassandra and the others took note of him. The Seeker slowly put down her plate and slid her sword from its sheath. 

A tiny pinpoint of light darted between trees some distance off. Even the human could see it. Tarasyl’s brands hummed against his skin, a keening noise going off behind his ears. The hairs on his neck stood up. Something magical was coming and he had a feeling it wasn’t divine intervention. 

A light ball broke from the trees. For a moment, Tarasyl’inan thought it a firefly, a very big firefly. Problem with that theory was it didn’t move like a bug. It hovered and zipped as though searching for something. Also bugs didn’t leave a comet trail behind them. 

“What in the—“ Cassandra started. The ball flew over her head, cutting her off. It spun and zipped from Solas to Varric, pausing as though it was studying them. Then it stopped right in front of Tarasyl, literally. He had to pull his head back and cross his eyes just to keep it in his sights. 

The light pulsed once, twice, thrice. This close, the hum and keening came off it in waves. His ears twitched. He furrowed his eyebrows at the odd little light. 

“It’s a wisp,” Solas chuckled as the ball started spinning around the other elf. Wisps were always playful. Tarasyl grumbled as he tried to keep the ball in his sights. Easier said than done. “It is no threat, Seeker.” 

“I find that hard to believe, Solas,” Cassandra growled as she watched the little ball dance. 

“What’s it doing?” Varric laughed as the wisp acted like an excited puppy in glowing ball form. He imagined if the ball could, it’d be barking. It bobbed and spun, leaving a sparkling comet trail behind. 

“Perhaps it was searching for our thief,” Solas mused. The ball seemed to be fixating on the Herald, whether it was because it was asked to or because of the mark. The mark most likely made him look like a beacon to spirits, the lyrium only brightening it. 

“Well, it found me. Good job. Congrats. Can we stop flying around me now?” Tarasyl grumbled. He was starting to get dizzy from its spinning. It was like Falon and that damn stick again. Mythal forbid you ever got that stick. That dog would spin and twist and run around you until you got sick. If he didn’t pounce on you and knock your ass over first. 

“Who sent it?” Cassandra asked warily. She didn’t like the idea of any kind of spirit being able to find them. 

“I did,” came from the trees behind her. The Seeker spun, brandishing her blade towards the shadows. The brushes snapped; leaves and grass rustled. Soon, the firelight broke upon three hooded figures. The wisp shot to them before disappearing. 

The left one was smaller, softer steps. Elf, if Tarasyl could guess. The middle one leaned against an old gnarled staff. Charms dangled from the strings around the base of the hollowed out knot where a crystal rested. The last one hung back a little, but they were taller than the other two. They, too, had a staff, only theirs was an Enchanter staff from the Circle. 

“Oh, put that thing away, girl; yer going to stab someone with it.” The tone was that of a stern grandmother, one used on unruly grandchildren. Cassandra eyed the two mages warily. “Well, girl?” her tone said she was cocking an eyebrow. For a moment, the blade dipped. 

“Who are you?” Cassandra asked, catching herself quickly. No matter how authoritative her tone was, she was an unknown and an apostate. While the latter meant very little anymore, the former meant everything. 

“It’s bad manners to ask people their names with a sword in their face.” Tarasyl’s ears perked up. Now where had he heard that voice before? He had met a lot of old women who were grandmotherly, but very few had that thick of a Rivaini accent. “We are little threat to you, girl, that should be enough.” 

Cassandra snorted. Little threat her ass. The one in the middle oozed magic and the one with the Enchanter’s staff was setting off every warning bell she had. A cold seemed to roll of them, a static settling over Cassandra’s shoulders when they stepped closer. 

“Come on, Seeker,” Varric interrupted. Was her policy stab first and ask questions later or something? She seriously needed some work on her socializing skills. “Don’t you think if they were going to attack us, they would’ve done so already?” 

“There’s a smart one.” 

“I try.” Varric smirked as Cassandra growled something drowned out by her sword sliding back into its sheathe. She gave a warning glare at the trio and then at Varric before sitting down. Tarasyl watched the newcomers closely, still trying to place the stupid little feeling that he knew these people from somewhere. 

“Good girl,” the grandmotherly smiled from under her hood. She hobbled her way over to one of the logs and sat down with an oomph. “I’m gettin’ too old for scouring the world.” 

The complaint rang a bell in Tarasyl’s head so loud it might as well have been a siren. She didn’t. She couldn’t. He narrowed his eyes at her, “Grandma Lore?” 

She laughed as she pushed her hood back, “Took ya long enough, lad.” Tight gray curls streaked with a russet brown were held back from an aging face by an embroidered bandanna. Little coins with arcane markings flashed in the curls that still held a lot of bounce. Steely gray eyes danced mischievously at him as the old Rivaini Seer watched him. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” He asked before anyone could get their question in. The other two in Lore’s trio sat down beside her, the small one on the log and the tall one down on the ground. 

“Savin’ yer legs a trip,” Lore laughed again. “Heard you were taking jobs again.” 

Tarasyl snorted, “Well, if you can’t tell, I’m a little tied up at the moment.” He rattled the cuffs for emphasis. 

Lore looked over at the others for a moment. “Then I also be savin’ yer neck.” His eyes narrowed. “The spirits have been chatty lately. Somethin’s brewin’.” Her eyes flickered down to his wrists. “And they say you’ve got power in yer hands to stop it, lad, and you be runnin’.” 

He bristled at that. Just what he needed: nosy spirits. If he wanted their concern, he’d ask. Then again he doubted spirits understood boundaries. “What I choose to do with my hands is my business.” 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Varric interrupted before this got any more confusing. “Rewind a bit, please. I think we missed a few key introductions.” The old woman laughed as Tarasyl huffed and glared off to the side. 

“Dalish have never been good at shemlen manners, isn’t that right, lad?” Lore teased, crinkling all the wrinkles around her eyes. Varric would put her age at late fifties, though humans tended to age differently than dwarves or elves. A bit older than Leandra, he’d guess since her dark skin looked to be weathered leather. “Seer Catelina De Tiedra, but everyone just calls me Grandma Lore.” 

“And what does a Seer do exactly?” He asked. Sure you heard about them, but the most he knew was they were like hedge witches. 

Catelina, or Lore he supposed, set her staff beside her. “I guide the lost.” She looked over at Tarasyl as she said it. “I find that which has been lost and make it known again.” Tarasyl kept his expression neutral. 

Lore had saved his hide many times. Sometimes it had just been her giving him a safe place to stay for a while. Others it was giving him information on a hit. Spirits heard a lot of things, knew where a lot of things were. And Seers talked to a lot of spirits. 

“And your friends?” Solas asked. The one on the ground hummed with magic. It was familiar and yet muffled. 

“Don’t be rude, girl,” Lore chastised the one at her feet. “We share a fire, the least you can do is share your face.” 

The one sighed loudly, before reaching up with fingers covered in rings to her hood. Everyone, but Tarasyl, was shocked to see the tell-tale sunburst brand on her forehead. Gold dots formed a sort of tattoo crown with the brand. Similar dots went down her nose, below her eyes and down her chin. Dark brown hair was bound in a bun with only two curls framing her face. A golden nose ring adorned her right nostril, a chain connecting it to one in her ear. 

“Kaja Niraemia; you can call me Hex,” she stated simply. Her tone wasn’t flat like a Tranquil’s. There was an underlying strain to it, and by how she was eyeing Cassandra with narrowed green eyes, one could easily guess her problem. 

“Why Hex?” Varric tried to smile, but Tranquil always made him uneasy. And this one was no exception. Maybe more so since it seemed like she was hiding something. 

“I specialized in Entropy, hexes and curses.” Hex shrugged, bending a knee to rest her arm on it. Gold anklets flashed, chains creating a delicate wrap over the top of her foot. 

“You sound like a Marcher, but your surname is Tevinter,” Solas noted. 

“Born in Starkhaven, mother from Anderfels and father from Tevinter.” 

“What Circle were you from?” Cassandra asked. She had a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach as the mage turned her gaze back to her. Those green eyes held an anger behind their dead stare. 

“Kirkwall.” 

Varric’s stomach twisted at that one word. He tried to remember her face, if he had ever seen her. He came up with nothing. Which was either good or bad. Good because that meant he never met her. Bad because he might not have noticed her. 

“This is my daughter, Ashila. You may call her Glyph,” Hex smoothly diverted attention to the last of the trio. Ashila pushed back her hood revealing a young elf’s face. Her blonde hair was shaggy, choppy. A strange glyph-like symbol covered her right eye in a violet color. 

“Let me guess, the tattoo?” Varric chuckled as the young girl fidgeted. She seemed sweet like Merrill, a slight blush coming over her freckled skin. 

“I studied glyphs—healing glyphs, speed glyphs, lots of glyphs really—too,” she spoke very quickly, fidgeting with her cloak. 

“Where did you get the tattoo?” 

Glyph shrugged, “I’m told I had it when I came to the Circle. I don’t remember getting it.” That made her very young when she came into her magic, then. And to be so young and already in the middle of a war…Varric once again wanted to smack Blondie upside the head. 

“There hap—“ Tarasyl started before Grandma Lore cut him off, “Don’t be rude, lad. Who are your friends?” He narrowed his white eyes at her. She had a smug smirk on her face, knowing full well she was annoying him. 

“Lady Punches Bears, Hahren Worrystone, and Varric,” He pointed at each of them quickly. “There, nice to meet you, how was your trip, can we get back to my questions now?” Lore laughed at the elf’s names. The others looked at him like he was insane, ‘Worrystone’ in particular seemed confused. Varric tried (and failed) to hide his chuckle. Solas’s head did look like someone had rubbed it a lot. 

“Would you stop calling me that?” Cassandra growled. You think she would be used to nicknames. Varric never called her by her name. He never called anyone by their name. Tarasyl ignored her, staring down a Rivaini Seer. “Why the hell are you here, Lore?” He asked again. He had a twisting in his gut. Lore didn’t like to travel much, at least not this far from her little hut. Something big must have happened, or was going to happen. 

Lore dropped her smile, aged face deadly serious. Glyph and Hex both shifted as though they didn’t like this part. Or they were readying for something. 

“Look, lad,” Lore started, her serious grandmother lecture voice on, “the world’s fallin’ to pieces: the Mages and Templars rage against anyone and everyone, the Divine is dead, and someone’s gone and punched a hole in the sky. The end times are upon us and it’s going to take more than prayers to set things right.” Crickets chirped in the silence as she let her words soak in. 

Those words had already been said. They still caused an anxious feeling in Tarasyl’s chest, like caged birds were flapping inside his heart. He looked away from her steady stare. Her eyes told him why she came. She wanted to change his mind, make him into that damn Herald everyone wanted. 

“I’m no hero, Grandma Lore. You know that.” He grumbled. He was the farthest thing from what they needed as you could get. He fucked up everything. He hid. He got fucking anxiety at the thought of talking in front of large groups for Sylaise’s sake! 

“We don’t need a damn hero,” Hex growled, flicking a small stick at the stubborn elf. Her green eyes flared, the cold suddenly thickening. She took a deep breath through her nose before speaking again. “We need someone who can get shit done, good or ill.” 

Lore placed a hand on her shoulder, a subtle magic in her fingers. Cassandra narrowed her eyes slightly, but kept quiet. Even she understood that now was not the time to question these people, especially since they might be the only way she got those documents back. 

“You’ve got power sittin’ in yer hand and there’s nothin’ that will change that,” Lore shook her head, jingling her lucky coins. “Whether you like it or not, you were chosen—“ 

“Not more of that fate shit, Lore,” Tarasyl growled. He was getting really tired of that. First Cassandra, now Lore. Well to be fair Lore always said he was meant for something. Everyone was. That was why they were all still alive. He thought it was a Seer thing, but never met another one, so he couldn’t say for sure. 

He did know he wasn’t chosen for anything, well anything good anyway. Maybe as a warning: don’t be like this dipshit. He certainly wasn’t picked to save the world. He was the most powerless, pathetic, terrible low life he knew. 

“You know the heavens, lad? The stars?” Lore narrowed her eyes, scolding him. She knew well how the elf berated himself. She couldn’t fault him really. When someone was told all their life they were blessed by Fen’Harel, they grow to believe it. “Who’s to say your gods, mine or the spirits haven’t picked you?” 

Tarasyl snorted. Crazy old lady. She had hit the lyrium bottle too much, he thought. “Simple: me. You need a miracle,” Tarasyl gave a mirthless laugh, “I’m a disaster, a walking accident. If anyone chose me, it was fucking Fen’Harel,” he was growling now. He was sick of everyone trying to fix him, to make him better. He wasn’t a good person and he never would be. He wouldn’t ever do anything right. Why couldn’t they see that? “And I’d tell that son of mabari bitch he could stick his blessing up his ass.” 

“Lad,” Lore laughed, “you are one of two known people to have survived lyrium branded in their skin, you survived five years of slavery, the Blight, the Qunari in Kirkwall and the Mage Uprising. You came out of the Conclave with nothin’ but a glowing mark! One of those things you couldn’t discount as sheer luck, lad. All of them? Either you are chosen by some god, or you have a spirit of luck guiding yer path.” 

What would a spirit of luck look like anyway? He furrowed his eyebrows. He knew that was beside the point, but it helped distract from the clawing nerves he was getting in his stomach. Would it be green? What would it be like? Wisps liked to float, Valor liked to make weapons, and Justice was a stick up the ass. Luck…he had no clue. And if there was a luck spirit, what other kind of spirits were there? Humor? Did it make terrible puns and bad jokes? 

Lore flicked another stick at him. He blinked snatching himself from his thoughts. Dots of light obscured his vision from where he had stared into the fire too long. 

He shook his head again, his long earring smacking his neck. “What’s your point, Lore? Even if I survived all that, that doesn’t give me power. It doesn’t make me anything, but lucky.” 

“And skilled,” Varric happily added. Tarasyl glared at him for a second. “What? Surviving Tevinter and the Blight takes skill, Flicker, and I’ve seen you take on an **ogre**.” 

“So? I don’t have…” he motioned helplessly with his bound hands, “I don’t even know how the fuck to lead. I’m a thief; my job description is to take what’s not mine and disappear. Nowhere in that does it say: lead an army.” 

“Did yer brother know how to lead?” Lore asked simply. Tarasyl opened his mouth, but shut it. The kid was eighteen when he was suddenly thrown into the Blight. He had barely gotten his vallaslin, and he was to be just another hunter. “Did he know how to fight the Blight or unite a country? Did he ever have any power before?” 

Tarasyl’s eyes looked to the side, pale eyelashes brushing his cheeks. Slowly he shook his head. He still didn’t see how his little brother compared to him. 

“Yet he learned. Given the means, he was left to figure how to command armies on his own,” Lore spoke gently. “And his people love and trust him. On the other hand, look at Orlais, torn and bloody from a civil war over the throne. Those people who started the war, they were born to power and look at the mess they made.” 

“You can skip to the point any time, Lore.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Point is, lad, perhaps the reason why you were chosen was because you have been powerless. You know what is like to live with nothin’. You understand better than all the Empresses and Kings what it’s like for the small folk.” 

“There hasn’t been an elf in your kind of position since Shartan,” Glyph spoke up. Her eyes gleamed happily in the light like the idea of an elf in power made her proud. Like maybe that would change things for the elves. Tarasyl winced at the hope. “Maybe Andraste—or the Maker or your gods too I guess—maybe they wish to right all the wrongs? Show that we aren’t just dirty knife-ears?” 

“Or maybe an elf knows better than most what it’s like to be at the bottom of the barrel,” Hex stated calmly. “And most of what I know about Elven culture…you guys take care of each other, discounting the little rivalry Dalish have with City Elves, so maybe **that’s** why. Little people tend to look out for other little people.” 

“You are exactly what we needed, when we needed it,” Cassandra repeated steadily. She met the white eyes across the fire. “It doesn’t matter why or how, but you are the only one who can end this before it’s too late.” 

Tarasyl sighed loudly. He looked at all the faces around him. Cassandra, her eyes hard with determination, she was ready to cut down her foes (with her cheekbones probably, seriously those things could cut glass, he thought with a suppressed grin at his own joke). Varric, hope in his eyes, he wanted to save a friend and possibly help the small people who tended to get squashed when the world came crumbling down. Solas, his face guarded, he seemed saddened by something. 

Lore, steel eyes looking at him expectantly, she would just nudge and nudge until he found his way. And she was convinced this was his way. Hex, green eyes holding a fire behind them, she wouldn’t stop until every mage was safe, if he knew Courage. Glyph, young face still innocent and hopeful, she looked at him like some kind of messiah. 

It was frightening how they all looked at him and saw something. He had spent years convincing himself he was nothing, no one special, not worth a second glance let alone these kind of looks. Yet here he was. His heart beat frantically in his chest. 

He imagined what Abelasula would tell him if she was still there. She probably would tell him to stop being an idiot and help already. _You always say you want to tell Fen’Harel to screw himself,_ he could hear her voice clearly, _here’s your chance! Show everyone!_

He looked up at the canopy. He wished he could see if the Creators were looking down on him. He had been told all his life that children blessed by Fen’Harel were dead or shadows in the Creators’ eyes. They had no place, no fate, and that saddened the Creators. So why did they never help them? He always wondered if the Creators tried to help those souls stolen by the Dread Wolf. Or if they were truly just lost. 

If they did, was this his chance they were giving him? Were they trying to free him from the jaws of the wolf? He didn’t think he was very religious, but the thought that he might be more than Harellan sparked a tiny light inside him. A light that had died a long time ago. 

Tarasyl looked back at Lore. “Who am I to deny Fate, right?” He smirked sadly. “You do know this is most likely going to kill me, yeah?” 

“Hardly, lad, the spirits have great confidence in you!” Lore laughed well cackled. 

That…didn’t calm his stomach, he thought with a grimace. “Yeah that makes me feel all warm and tingly…” 

“So you’ll do it?” Cassandra asked bewildered. He looked over at her with a tired sigh. 

“Yeah, whatever, I’ll get your damn papers back and close the stupid hole in the ceiling, but after that I’m leaving, deal? Just everyone stop looking at me like I'm some kind of savior, alright? This is going to end horribly for all involved, guaranteed.” 

That was more than she had hoped. She honestly thought he’d just get the papers and bolt. Not that she could blame him. She did punch him and fry his brands. Still she nodded once. The keys jangled as she stood up and went to unlock his cuffs. 

Tarasyl watched her, holding up the cuffs. “So, Lore, your spirits say anything else? Like where I might find those papers?” 

The old Seer stretched, rubbing her neck stiffly. She really was getting too old for this heroic adventure. “Your friend, Trace, left a message,” she started. “Said somethin’ about a cult, Venatori, that’s been havin’ a lot of expeditions to the South lately. Your old owners, the Lartys’, they apparently are a part of it.” 

Tarasyl’s face lost a shade of color. His blood froze. His heart started to pound. Flashes of whips and laughter and parties and the haze of Ether suddenly collided in his head. His breathing quickened, before he started to try and calm the sudden panic. His brands lit up, shooting pain through him. He grabbed onto that. He anchored himself there, focusing on the hum and ache they made against his skin. 

“W-what’s so special about these…V-vena-Vints?” He stuttered, rubbing his arms. The others looked at him with concerned expressions. Varric made a mental note to let Fenris know there was going to be potential trouble soon…Also he made a note to cast a lot of nets to figure out where those assholes were and keep both Broody and Flicker far from them. 

Lore shrugged, “The spirits have been clatterin’ about them too. They don’t like the looks of them, says there’s a shadow behind them.” 

“Spirits are stupidly vague,” Tarasyl growled. 

Lore and Hex both narrowed their eyes, shooting death glares that would’ve stopped a horde. “They know more than you, lad, or do you not want their vague help?” 

He rolled his eyes. “So far I see nothing to do with the papers.” 

Lore grumbled under her breath, “Impatient little shit.” Tarasyl gave a weak smile, still shivering and glowing. “They tell me your contact has that same shadow behind her.” 

His eyes went wide, “What?” So that meant…Shivera was a Vena-Vint? He bristled. Last thing he wanted to do was help someone who could possibly get his former owners on his trail again. And he didn’t like the idea of being lied to. He expected it sure, but he didn’t like it. “Shit fuck shit.” 

“So you are saying these Venatori are the ones who have those documents?” Cassandra asked through clenched teeth. She didn’t like the sound of them. Cults rarely wanted anything good, and if they wanted the Divine’s plans for the Inquisition… 

“Aye, the shadow behind them doesn’t wish to be opposed.” Lore nodded. 

“Where do we find them?” The Seeker growled, fists balling at her sides. Tarasyl prayed he wasn’t about to get hit again. He still had a bruise on his face from the first time. 

The Seer gazed calmly at her, “The spirits tell me the Shield knows the way.” Everyone blinked at her. _Well, that was cryptic and unhelpful,_ Tarasyl grumbled in his head. You’d think beings who saw everything would be a bit more helpful in locating lost things. Instead what you got was a riddle to find it. 

Tarasyl put his head on his fist, staring into the fire. The Shield knows the way, huh? Who or what is the Shield? Was it a spirit? He didn’t like the idea of trying to contact a spirit. Lady Punches Bears would freak and he had a feeling he’d lose his arm and maybe a few other body parts. 

So was the Shield a person? Who would be a shield? Blacksmiths made shields, but he didn’t think they were a shield. A knight maybe? They were sworn to be the shield of their country. Also the sword, but beside the point. So if it was a knight, which knight? There were a lot of knights. You had the soldiers of Ferelden, the chevaliers of Orlais… He perked up as the thought crossed his mind. Chevaliers. An aegis is a shield. “Aegis.” He stated suddenly with a proud smile. 

“Hmph, you’re getting quicker at riddles,” Hex noted amusedly. He stuck his tongue out before focusing back at the three Inquisition people’s confused looks. 

“We need to go to Val Royeaux. I have a contact there who might point us in the right direction.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hex and Lore are two of my favorite characters in this story btw. Right after Trace, who you'll meet eventually. 
> 
> And YAY! We get to meet Dorian sooner. Like I said I was going to rip the canon to shreds to suit me and my needs.
> 
> Little less snark in this chapter because well for the most part Tarasyl thought he was going to die and...the author was really lazy so parts may be rushed and jammed together. Whatcha going do?


	5. Canelés

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is just an ordinary chapter about how to navigate the black market in Orlais and simultaneously piss off every ally you have. Nothing special.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note: I had way too much fun making up the code words. So fun to design code speak that could easily be in every day language.
> 
> Another note: I don't speak French, so I might have screwed something up (please tell me if I did) 
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely volunteer SteveTheMightySquirrel. I love both my betas, makes life so much better.

“Remind me why this was a good idea,” Tarasyl’s voice shook as he stared up at the white plaster all around him. His heart pounded as he walked down the street. He was a wanted criminal here. He had such a huge bounty on his head that one could live like a Duke somewhere in the Dales by turning him in. His heart tried to propel him towards his doom. Absently he fingered his bandana, then the long earring touching his shoulder. 

“Look up, Flicker,” Varric helpfully quipped. The elf did as told; he of course found the giant hole in the sky. 

“Didn't you guys tell me it was stable?” He tried. Varric gave him a little push towards the city. Tarasyl flicked up his hood on his hunter coat. With his ears covered, he was nothing more than a gangly human. His varghest scale coat and his vest made him look more like a hunter, only if one looked down would they know he was an elf. 

“It is, but it continues to open new Rifts,” Solas explained. 

“Right...” Tarasyl took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. “So just let me do the talking, alright, Lady Punches Bears?” 

“If you will cease to call me that,” She grumbled. 

Tarasyl laughed, “No deal; next offer.” Apparently her next offer was a disgusted noise. “Deal.” 

He squared his shoulders and headed into the Lion's Den, hoping he looked like he wasn't about to fall to pieces at this madness. 

Seriously, here he was trying to steal back something **he** had stolen fair and square for an organization of Chantry militia forces who were going to have him beheaded if he didn't close a giant hole in the sky. Just one part of the sentence was crazy, all of it together was impossible. 

Sure he was used to impossible quests: stop the Blight, save Ferelden; defeat the Qunari, save Kirkwall...This? This was ridiculous plain and simple. That he wasn't getting paid for this shit? Insanity. 

He sighed as he turned towards the lower regions of the capital. The buildings slowly turned...less nice. Their white plaster chipped and peeled, looking to be more like a layer of dirt than decoration. The stones of the path turned worn and dirty with mud and “other” things. Buildings crammed together, clotheslines crisscrossed in the space between them. 

The people grew more frequent the further they went down into this hidden side of Val Royeaux. Dirty clothes, calloused hands and scarred faces all described the lower regions' inhabitants. Rather than the masked elegance of the nobles, these people looked more at home in a seedy bar, or on a corner selling some service. 

A few passersby gave the group odd looks, mostly pointed at Cassandra...who was acting like a twitchy new guard. This was the sort of place you'd take someone to mug or murder them after all, and the Phantom **was** an assassin... 

“Where are you taking us?” She asked warily, eyeing a one eyed man that was sizing her and her sword up. 

Tarasyl chuckled. He could practically smell his companions' unease, even Varric's. Well he actually could’ve if the air wasn't filled with shit. 

“My side of the city,” he replied with only his smirk showing from under the shadow of his hood. 

Soon they got to what looked like the slums' market. A large area where all the streets seemed to meet in a circle. A circle filled with people and all their various smells. Vendor hocked goods from ramshackle booths, a weapon clearly at their sides. Others from a store window, the door most likely locked and barred. 

For such a large and crowded area, there were only two guards: one on the north end and one at the south end. Tarasyl knew the southern one was taking monetary bribes from at least a dozen of the vendors and the northern one could easily be persuaded by...a “talented” tongue. 

“Welcome to the real Val Royeaux,” he laughed, throwing his arms wide to include all of the scene. The gilded nobles parading around in plumage were nothing compared to these people who sweated and bled for the Game. Here was where the real workings of the Game played out. 

Here contraband was sold: stolen trinkets from a cheap master, some “lost” jewelry from a party, nicked silverware from the kitchens filled with the shit. Deals were made between factions, contacts of contacts all working together for some unknown employer to take down a rival. 

Most importantly, information was both a service and a currency here; you just had to know the right doors to knock on. 

He started for one of the side streets that had signs for different businesses. Farther down one could make out water with boats. The docks. “Remember: I talky, you intimidate the locals.” 

“And why do we have to intimidate the locals?” Solas asked. The Seeker could, sure, she was dressed like a guard or Templar. Him or Varric? They didn't stick out too much he didn't think. 

The other elf snorted, “Please you guys stick out like a mabari at an Orlesian party.” 

“That means...?” 

“Have you ever seen a mabari?” Tarasyl turned around to look at him dubiously. “They scare the piss out of anyone who isn't Ferelden.” He shook his head for a moment. “You guys are new, and new equals two things. One: the law. And two: easy targets.” He paused to let Cassandra stop glaring at a particularly shifty looking kid. “The latter would work if you didn't have weapons, so everyone here is thinking the former. Thus I talky talky, you stand there and look scary.” 

“Hope you are talking to the Seeker, Flicker,” Varric laughed. 

“Of course, she's the only one I'm worried about punching someone.” Tarasyl's attention wandered to a group of dock workers heading towards them. Most of them he didn't know, so their shift must have just ended or something, but one of them stopped and looked at him. 

He raised his gaze to look at the human. Dark Antivan skin weathered by years of docks and ships left the man looked aged despite his brown hair not having a single gray. 

Tarasyl knew him: a smuggler contact he had been commissioned by a few times. Also he was a dock worker, which made him a good source of information since the only thing more abundant than fish and illegal items at the docks was gossip...Mercurio he thought his name was, well his contact name. 

“Didn't know Dalish haunted the same place twice so soon,” The human said casually as he walked up to the taller elf. 

“They do if there is more they want...or they are drawn back, shem,” Tarasyl replied smoothly. 

Mercurio smirked, “And what could draw a Dalish back to this place? It's all dried up.” Too bad, Tarasyl thought. He could've used another job since this one would be a bust. Oddly, clients didn't like to pay when you double cross them. Who would've thought, right? Then again, Lady Punches Bears would probably kill him if he even tried to do something illegal...well that didn't involve her getting her papers back anyway. 

“An aegis.” 

The human's eyebrows rose at the subtle drop. “Not sure why you'd want a shield.” He studied the hooded figure and the three behind him...who were looking confused at this whole conversation. Varric could guess they were using codes or some sort of secret talk, but it all sounded so...mundane. Which was the point, he guessed. Still, he was storing this away for future stories involving crime. He might even get Flicker to help on the next installment of Hard in Hightown... 

“But if one wants a shield, it's Caldor you want to see.” Mercurio pointed to the east where sounds of a smithy could be heard. 

“He keeps them in store?” Tarasyl asked innocently enough. 

“No, but he usually knows where to get them.” 

He nodded his thanks and waited for the human to disappear into the bustle of the market before turning to the three at his back. 

“What...was that?” Cassandra asked, baffled by that odd conversation. 

Varric laughed. She apparently never dealt with good information brokers before. “That, my dear Seeker,” he patted her arm, “was why you should leave the talking to the shady elf.” 

Tarasyl snorted, “I'm not a shady elf, you shifty dwarf.” 

****** 

A little while later, they found Caldor's shop. A tiny building squashed between two taller ones, smoke billowing out the old chimney. Dwarven smithed tools laid around the shop's window with a bored teenager leaning out amidst the clutter. She barely glanced at Tarasyl before yelling something into the shop. 

He wasn't surprised. While in crowds, he could blend in, but this deep in the slums? Well let's say a hooded figure usually stuck out. Not that anyone was going to say or do anything. As far as anyone here was concerned, so long as you weren't after them, your business was just that. 

An older dwarven man came up to the window, sweat and soot still on his bushy brow. Embers smoldered like tiny stars in his black beard (as ornate as any proper Orzammar Dwarf's beard). Caldor. 

“Aye, whatcha want, lad? Lots of steel to fold,” the dwarf spoke with a gruff manner. 

“Hear you know where to find an aegis around here?” 

Caldor paused. A keen eye studied him. Was he a mole? A spy? Or just someone wanting “honest” work? 

Aegis was something of the working class heroine, a modern day Aveline, a chevalier who stood up for the little people...and by that he meant sold information about nobles to the little people. But hey, tomato potato. 

When the dwarf seemed to realize that despite the twitchy Seeker, Tarasyl was one of them, he wiped his hands on his shirt nervously. He leaned against the counter. Tarasyl stepped up to the window like he was looking to buy something. To any passersby it looked like a simple transaction. 

“Lookin' to arm yourself, lad?” Caldor asked. Tarasyl shrugged. 

“Hunting some quarry, figure a good shield would be smart.” 

“Aye,” the dwarf nodded, “but a good shield costs, lad.” 

Of course. Tarasyl stopped himself from rolling his eyes. Nothing was ever free. Instead he tapped on some climbing spikes and a small almost file type saw, while reaching into his coin purse. The tools were only a few coppers, but he grabbed a gold piece, sliding it forward while Caldor bundled the tools up for him. 

“Thank you,” he smiled taking the gold. “If your quarry's that bad, there's a smithy in the upper markets that sells shields.” Tarasyl nodded, taking his purchase. It was a start, he supposed. He started to turn away, but the dwarf stopped him. “Oh and lad? Be sure to stop at the café near there. I hear the canelés are the best of the best.” 

The elf smirked, flashing a fang. “ _Ma serannas._ ” Bingo. 

***** 

“So I am confused…” Cassandra started. Tarasyl bit back his comment that that wasn’t a surprise. Most people who didn’t work in the black markets were confused by how they actually dealt with business. Unless you were in an Antivan black market…those were another animal entirely. “How did you get your contact’s location from just one conversation?” 

“Okay?” Tarasyl glanced at her from the side. “So first off, we don’t talk about that sort of thing walking around. Secondly, does the how really matter in the long run?” So long as the job gets done, it shouldn’t matter how it was done…Except with assassinations, he amended. Those needed to be done certain ways, mostly to the contractor’s preference. 

“It does when I don’t know if you are selling us out or signing us up for something,” She narrowed her eyes as they started walking up to the grand gates of the upper markets. An Inquisition scout interrupted whatever the thief was going to say. 

“My lord Herald—“ 

“No,” Tarasyl pointed a claw at her. His heart panicked at just that one word. He looked around to make sure no one was around before he practically growled, “No, no one here is to know I’m the Herald, got it?” Last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to himself…especially the kind that might lead to his arrest. 

The scout blinked, startled while Varric rubbed the back of his neck. Guess he forgot to mention that when they were detailing their plan to go to Val Royeaux. “Yeah…about that, Flicker…” 

Tarasyl’s eyes snapped to him. Fear and dread sparkled behind their white depths. “What the fuck did you guys do?” He snapped. His eyes bounced between the four of them like a caged animal. 

“See, that Revered Mother at the Crossroads suggested we call the clerics together to…” Varric trailed off as the elf took one step back like he was going to run. 

“Convince them we aren’t usurpers and demons to be feared,” Cassandra finished. She waited to see if the Herald would bolt like his whole body language said he was. Tarasyl swallowed the knot in his throat, only to have it twist in his gut. 

Are they fucking insane? Who thinks parading a person accused of murder in front of their accuser to be a dandy idea? ‘Oh well most of these people think you killed their boss, let’s just show you off like a trophy!’ 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Tarasyl growled as his fear hardened into anger. “How is this—What makes you think I would—I’m not the fucking Herald!” His words tumbled out in a mess. 

“Whether you accept the title or not,” Cassandra started, “you are the hope these people need. Is that such a bad thing?” 

“Yes!” Tarasyl crouched down, pushing back his hood to claw through his choppy hair. “They are placing hope in a fuck up! Seriously, bad luck is like a disease I can’t get rid of. As my current position demonstrates!” 

Varric chuckled despite himself. His current position was pretty bad. But on the positive side of life, Tarasyl always made it through. Guy was just that stubborn. “Look, Flicker, we just called the clerics together to show them the Inquisition isn’t so bad. No one said anything about the Herald showing up. For all they know you are just some hunter joining us.” 

Tarasyl looked up at him dubiously. He sighed, yanking his hood back on with a glare at Cassandra and the scout. “Not the Herald,” he hissed. “This is going to end up in disaster.” 

Solas chuckled at how fatalistic the young man could be. “What could possibly go wrong? They are just here to talk.” 

“Don’t say that, Worrystone. Now Fen’Harel himself is going to show up.” 

Solas started to laugh, “And why is that?” Tarasyl and Varric both stared at him with strange looks. “What?” 

“Somewhere…someone just got struck by lightning,” Tarasyl said with an almost scared look on his face. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“You just laughed, Chuckles, you don’t laugh,” Varric clarified. 

“So something terrible either just happened, or is going to happen…” Tarasyl grumbled, “like Fen’Harel tearing my arm off.” Solas tried hard not to chuckle at that. He eyed the Herald for a moment, finding the thief to be very interesting. 

“All because I said what could possibly go wrong, and laughed?” 

Tarasyl rolled his eyes, “Yeah well remind me to tell you of all the times Ren said that. Like when we trekked up to Haven. Cultist Haven, not your Haven.” 

“I’m sure you have quite a few interesting stories to share, blessed hero of Andraste,” Solas said teasingly. 

“Did you just…” Varric started, but was interrupted by Tarasyl’s “Fen’Harel take you, Sass-ass.” Tarasyl stopped for a moment, pondering his name. “Solas. Soul less. Sole ass.” That made the older elf roll his eyes with a sigh. 

The scout spoke up, “Um, excuse me, my lord.” 

Tarasyl’s back stiffened at that again, “Not excused, not a lord.” Cassandra glared at him so hard he thought his brands might start boiling again. He held up his hands in surrender. “What?” 

“The clerics await you, but…so do a great many Templars.” 

“And this is why you never say what could possibly go wrong…” 

“Is the Lord Seeker…?” Cassandra asked just as the scout began to nod. She frowned. 

“Didn’t you say neither the Grand Enchanter nor the Seeker guy wanted to talk to you?” Tarasyl asked, vaguely recalling that briefing on the way to Val Royeaux. He also remembered Lore saying to be careful around either of them (in the stereotypical wise and ominous Seer way) just before she took her little group towards Haven…much to the disapproval of Cassandra and Tarasyl. Last thing Haven needed was three apostates, two of which were…well one was Tranquil (emphasis on the was) and the other was a Seer. You do the alchemy. 

“I did, so why is he here now?” 

“Think the Templars have returned to the fold, to deal with us upstarts?” Varric suggested. 

“Perhaps…” Cassandra sighed. She squared her shoulders a little before looking back to the scout. “Return to Haven; someone will need to inform them if we are…delayed.” 

“Which is a nice word for imprisoned,” Tarasyl quipped with venom. “See why you don’t invite people who don’t like you to talk? They bring lyrium addicted buddies to knock you on the head.” 

“Experience talking, Flicker?” Varric threw back as they started walking. 

“Logic talking, Varric.” Tarasyl took a deep breath. He just needed to get to that little café and find Aegis. From the commotion at the far end, he’d say that was where the clerics were, so he just had to avoid them. Simple. “Look, let’s just find the aegis and go.” 

“No, we have to talk to the Mothers, otherwise nothing is going to get solved if we are constantly battling them.” Cassandra growled back. This was going to be how he spent the rest of his time with the Inquisition isn’t it? Bickering with the Seeker. 

“Fine, you guys can go talk to them, I’ll go find Aegis.” 

“As though I’d let you out of my sight.” 

“How about,” Varric broke in when it seemed they were about to murder the other, “we go get Tarasyl’s information, then talk to the Mothers on the way out? That way we don’t have to stay in Val Royeaux.” Which meant if they were going to be arrested, they could still escape without being sidetracked by needing information. 

Both of them snorted in agreement rather than verbally. Tarasyl skirted the edges of the walls, keeping his head low as more and more nobles started to gather around erected stage. Talk about being on a pedestal. Then again, religious types loved being above everyone else. 

The little café wasn’t full thankfully, probably because you didn’t eat before you went to sermons; they sometimes tended to leave a bad taste in your mouth. Like the one time Tarasyl let Sebastian talk him into going to the Chantry. That was a fun time: people staring, making tiny comments about his face tattoo, and all the not-so-subtle attempts of converting him by trying to make him feel like an inferior heathen. Good times. 

He shook his head as he noticed a man standing behind a podium with a glare on his face. A glare that said you are not welcome here. Oh well, so sad for the…whatever he was. Tarasyl furrowed his eyebrows, trying to think of the title. Person who checks reservations and seats you. Kind of like a café guard, only with actual guards to throw you out if he didn’t like you. 

The Café Guard sighed as Tarasyl approached him, “Yes, yes, I believe you are looking for the tavern, just take the stairs down a level.” His voice was thick with Orlesian pride, and the air was thick with whatever shit the guy decided to spray himself with. Tarasyl took a moment to make sure he wasn’t going to gag as his nose was assaulted. 

“Actually, I’m here for this place,” Tarasyl smiled politely. 

“I’m sorry, monsieur,” the way the word was sneered Tarasyl knew it wasn’t a compliment, “but do you have a reservation?” 

Tarasyl ignored him, looking to the side casually. “A friend of mine said that your canelés were the best of the best.” That got the man to shut his mouth. He glared at Tarasyl for a moment longer before sighing and pretending to look down at his papers. 

“Ah yes, Madam Chaufourier said to expect you.” Now the man’s tone was all polite. Amazing how that works. Know someone who deals in the black market and other people try to be very friendly. “Right this way, monsieur.” And kiss asses. 

***** 

They were led to a table in the middle of the room, a place that had a few others with people at them. Cassandra thought that to be odd since what they were doing was considered under the table and possibly illegal. But then as they sat down and the conversations drifted around them, she realized that was the point. 

With other people around talking, eavesdropping would be much harder to do. How careful and planned out did every move have to be in this Game? Probably far more so than the Orlesian one. 

Tarasyl acted as though nothing was wrong, casual, nonchalant as he leaned back in the chair. But Varric could see his eyes moving about, analyzing everything: where the exits were, entrances, guards passing by, even the patrons probably. 

“Will you be ordering, monsieur?” The waiter seemed skeptical as to whether or not Tarasyl could pay for anything. The kid could probably smell the elf on him…or he probably saw a dirty hunter in a high class café at least. Then again, water here cost more than what Tarasyl was willing to pay. But then again, he didn’t have to pay. 

“Water and whatever Madam Chaufourier will wish; put it on her tab,” Tarasyl said in a patronizingly sweet tone. The young waiter glared behind his mask but left them with a nod. 

“You usually treat waiters that way?” Varric asked. 

“Only ones who look down their nose at me,” Tarasyl shot back. 

Soon the pitcher and four glasses were brought along with a few plates of tiny cakes and a bottle of champagne. Tarasyl groaned inwardly. The waiter offered a glass to him, but he waved his hand in a decline. Last thing he needed was to fall of the sober aravel. Still, looking over at Cassandra, he was very tempted to drink the whole bottle. 

He did have to talk to a bunch of people after this, all of which wanted his head on a pike. And he had to convince them he wasn’t a murderer. Easy…not. He played with the silverware idly. Cassandra watched as he kept spinning the knife around his thumb with controlled precision. 

To most people, it would seem to be strange if not somewhat benign skill. To him, it kept a weapon in his hand, and so easy to change the grip to a stabbing one. Also…very nice to distract people with as you relieve them of their possessions. 

“So…how do you know this person will show?” Varric asked skeptically. Seemed a little weird that just by dropping some codewords you could make someone appear out of thin air. Tarasyl pointed to the building across the street. 

“There’s an apartment up there; we are in direct line of sight of that window,” Tarasyl didn’t look up at the building as he spoke softly, “and plenty of kitchen staff to run an errand. So she’ll show.” 

Varric would admit he was impressed. The elf ran a smooth operation that’s for sure. Probably why the Phantom was little more than…well a ghost. 

Much of the conversation stemmed from Varric, as the others were either too tense or just not the chatty type. The dwarf though couldn’t stand the quiet, so he took the time to catch up with Flicker, as well as ask him what they were going to do after Val Royeaux. 

“We head back to Haven,” Cassandra butted in, glaring at the elf. 

“You can, I’m getting my aravel and then heading to a friend’s,” Tarasyl shot back. He didn’t like the idea of staying in Haven even if it was now dragon cult free. That he knew of…He supposed the Inquisition could be classified a cult…But if they started worshipping a dragon, he was out. 

“If I have to drag you back…” She hissed. 

Tarasyl rolled his eyes, “I need arrows, my friend’s a fletcher and **might** think about helping you assholes out. Mythal knows you could use some decent arrows.” 

“We have a smithy—“ 

“And I’m sure he is good,” Tarasyl cut her off, “but my guess he is a shem and shemlen arrows never compare to elven arrows…unless you are Wade…and I doubt you could get to Wade without murdering his husband or boyfriend or whatever.” 

Varric choked a little on his water, “Herren? Really?” 

Tarasyl rolled his eyes, “Varric, trust me; I have a sixth sense with those sort of things.” Varric chuckled, conceding the point. Something caught the elf’s eye: glinting metal. He looked out the corner of his eye, catching a chevalier’s armor as they walked towards the café. May the Game begin. 

Aegis didn’t wear her signature shield, the one with the lion head in the middle of the sun, but she did wear a dress sword on her hip. Her mask covered her entire face in elegant filigree with (of course) plumage accents. Her armor was replaced with the dress armor most chevaliers wore around the city. One that said I’m better than you, but I’m not going to try to kill you right now. 

“Mon ami!” The chevalier exclaimed as she walked to the table, arms outstretched. Tarasyl stood to greet her. Her hands rested on his shoulders as he kissed each of her cheeks. Orlesians were weird was all he could say. She stepped back, eyeing him through her armored mask. “I did not know you were back in Val Royeaux.” 

She sat down first, brown eyes flickering over once to the others. But she pointedly ignored them as Tarasyl sat down. Business before pleasure as always with Aegis. 

“I hadn't planned on coming back so soon, but hunting is quite profitable here, and I've yet to get my fill,” Tarasyl smiled before sipping from his glass. 

Aegis chuckled, “Oh yes. One can make a fortune feeding the Game.” She daintily placed a napkin over her lap before selecting a few cakes for her plate. One had gold dusted over it; Tarasyl's nose could smell deep mushroom and anise even from across the table. Now how she was going to eat that with her mask on was anyone’s guess. “May I ask what your quarry is?” 

Varric followed the conversation with keen ears, seeing firsthand how to navigate the treacherous underground of Orlais...not that he needed practice, but well, he could only send so many people on these kind of things for so long. At least now he'd know what he was getting into...for story purposes of course. 

Tarasyl leaned back as though the conversation was nothing more than ‘how's the weather’. “A Tevinter beast that has recently begun migrating South; seems Ferelden has almost exploded with them.” Aegis's eyes narrowed slightly, her mask hiding everything else. So whether it was a smile or suspicion he couldn't guess. 

Then the chevalier nodded her head. “A strange beast to be sure. I've heard they like to stay around Redcliffe, drawn to the magic perhaps?” 

Tarasyl smirked, sipping again from his glass. “Truly? What odd beasts.” 

“Look around, mon ami! These are strange times,” Aegis gestured up to the ceiling as though to remind him of the Breach. Like he needed a reminder. Then she looked over to fidgeting Cassandra. “Who are your friends?” 

“The ones paying me for this beast,” Tarasyl said bluntly. One rule of the underground: never ask too many questions about contractors. Things turned messy. 

“I see. What about your last hunt? Did all go well?” Tarasyl could've laughed. Oh yeah it went splendid! He even got a permanent souvenir apparently. 

“Aye, it did,” he lied smoothly, “but seems my friend has shorted me a few coins.” 

Aegis blinked, “The little elf? I heard she seeks the same quarry as you.” 

“Oh?” 

She nodded softly, “Left a few days ago, I believe. Rather abruptly too; afraid of the competition?” Tarasyl gritted his teeth. It would take her several days just to reach Redcliffe. If he had any luck her contact, the Vena-Vint she was meeting would not be there yet. Which meant her contact was there of course. He had no luck after all. 

“She doesn’t seem the type to avoid challenges,” Tarasyl grumbled. “Problem is neither am I.” 

Aegis chuckled. “No, mon ami, I could ask for a dragon’s tooth and you would get one for gold.” He didn’t miss her jab at how desperate he could be, but pretended he let it bounce off his armor. He knew he was kind of despicable when it came to things. He would do just about anything for a price, didn’t matter if it was high risk and low reward, just so long as the reward covered the risk. It was part of the reason why he had so many clients. 

“Dragons aren’t all that tough; they bleed just like everything else…just a bit harder to make them bleed.” He then heard one of the bells start to ring out marking the time. “Well, my friend, I’m afraid I must cut this short. A few other friends to meet.” 

Aegis rose as he did, leaning across to kiss both his cheeks. “Au revoir, mon ami, or how do you say it? Safe journey?” 

“Dareth Shiral, my friend.” 

***** 

Tarasyl looked at the crowd with dread. A lot more people than before as the one Mother ranted and raved about something. A few nobles whispered near them as Cassandra lead their group to the stage. 

“We're dead,” Tarasyl grumbled as he noticed the Revered Mother looked in their direction. 

“Good people of Val Royeaux, hear me!” She started as though they hadn’t been hearing her for the past hour or more. “Together we mourn our Divine. Her naïve and beautiful heart silenced by treachery! You wonder what will become of her murderer. Well wonder no more.” 

For a second Tarasyl panicked. Had she seen him? Did she see the mark? It was covered and his face was too, so how did she know? His heart started going faster than a courser hound, brands trying to flicker to life but apparently purging them did some damage. 

“This Inquisition claims the so called Herald of Andraste to be innocent!” That made him let out a soft sigh, Varric patting his arm in comfort. “Claiming he rose where our beloved fell! We say this is a false prophet! The Maker would send no elf to us in our hour of need!” 

Oh no she did not. Suddenly his fear evaporated. “Shartan.” He growled loud enough to stop the Mother’s words. Everyone turned to the hooded figure. Varric smacked his forehead. That was one fight no Dalish would ever not take up. 

“What?” 

Tarasyl raised his chin, letting his hood fall back. His ears marked him more than the faded gold of his vallaslin. Most people actually missed it, thinking the lyrium to be his vallaslin. He might regret this when adrenaline stopped flooding his system, but for now he was going to ride this high. If only to shut up some humans. 

“Shar-fucking-tan,” He bit out. “You know the general that helped Andraste unite both elves and humans as she overthrew the Imperium? The one she gave The Dirth—oh I’m sorry, **The Exalted Plains** ,” He spat the words out, “to? The one you erased from history? You know that Shartan.” 

Varric rubbed the back of his neck as it was obvious Tarasyl was going to unleash a lot of frustration. Cassandra even looked slightly astounded, and horrified at the same time. She didn't know this kind of fight was in the elf. Mostly she thought bullshit and tricks were his forte. Even Solas was surprised by the sudden fire that was lit inside the younger elf. 

“I don’t—“ the Mother tried to counter, but Tarasyl cut her off again. 

“Or how about Garahel? You know the Warden who ended the Fourth Blight? Better yet, the Hero of Ferelden? The one Grey Warden in the history of Wardens to not only kill the Archdemon and not die, but also the one to end an entire Blight within a year?” He could go on with the number of heroes that happened to be elven. Some of which weren’t exactly shemlen friendly, but hey they were heroes to somebody. “You ask anyone who suffered the Blight if the Warden wasn’t Maker or whoever sent—“ Clanking armor interrupted him. 

They all turned to see a small battalion of Templars coming towards them. Tarasyl glared murder at them, about ready to just kill somebody and be done with this political religion bullshit. 

“The Templars have returned to the Chantry!” She declared as though it needed to be stated. She must really like the sound of her own voice. “They will face this Inquisition and the people will be safe once more!” 

Tarasyl noted how the head guy didn’t even stop as he crossed in front of her. That wasn’t subservient. That was straight up: I’m better than you; you mean nothing. Magisters did it a lot with slaves and rivals. And sure enough, the next guy in line took a swing at her. The fist connected with a solid thwap! For a second, Tarasyl felt sorry for her. Not only did she just get schooled by an elf, she got punched by a Templar. Shitty day for her. Then the next second, he was better. A sick feeling of about time rose up in him, even though he knew that a gauntlet to the back of the head was going to leave a mark or three. 

One of the Templars shifted uncomfortably; the head guy took notice. “Still yourself! She is beneath us!” He said to the knight before turning to Tarasyl and company. With a smug ass grin that wasn’t quite right on his face. Tarasyl’s hairs stood on end. Every instinct he had as a predator told him one thing: run. Like when a wolf faces a bear without the pack. 

“What was that about? Not here for us?” He asked before thinking better of it. He held up a hand as Creep Face opened his mouth. “You know what? Nope, don’t care, don’t want to know.” He stated as he turned, hands held up as though to deny involvement, and began to walk away. Last thing he wanted was to get involved with that brand of crazy. Meredith had definitely turned him off helping or even listening to Templars that oozed crazy. 

“Herald!” Cassandra barked in disbelief. Was he seriously just going to throw this chance away? Tarasyl turned around with a glare. 

“What? You think I care what Creepy Ass Violent Face there has to say?” He scoffed. “I can already guess it involves two things: one we are beneath him and two he’s a dick.” He turned again and started walking, flipping off the Templars over his shoulders. “And I don’t feel like getting called worthless some more, so they can eat the Dread Wolf’s ass for all I care.” 

Varric looked at the Seeker and shrugged following after the elf. Solas chuckled and shook his head. Their Herald was certainly a spirited one. Shouts rose from behind them, like people were in disbelief that the Herald just utterly dismissed both the Revered Mothers and the Templars. Talk about disrespect (not that Tarasyl cared three shits about their respect). 

Unfortunately for him, he couldn’t leave Val Royeaux just yet apparently. A Circle messenger stopped him to give him an invitation to some soiree he just passed off to Cassandra. Nope, not going to a fancy party. Someone usually ended up dead at those. Then an arrow shot down in front of him with a scroll tied to it by a red fabric. After reading that note, he knew it was the Red Jennies; this was totally their thing. He had crossed paths with a few of them, even did an odd job for them now and again, but had stopped since he kept getting contracts to kill them… 

Rather than wasting time finding the notes, he asked Cassandra if some scouts could find the stupid clues, just in case this was a bad omen. Like they know he was the Phantom and that a few of their friends kinda got offed by him type thing. Also, someone else might find them and that would just lead to a bunch of trouble from everyone. 

He’d look into it…once they were out of the city of course. Cassandra was still trying to persuade him to go to the soiree as they passed through the gates. 

“If I could have a moment of your time,” came yet another voice. Tarasyl growled in his throat, but kept walking. 

“No you may not,” He hissed. 

“Da’len, would it not be wise to at least listen to what she has to say?” Solas tried before the Seeker could bark. He had a feeling the more she barked, the more Tarasyl would bite back. So let’s try gentle coaxing to try to tame this prickly little pup. 

Tarasyl stopped on a dime and did an about face. His face was a mix between frustrated and calm anger. “Fine. You’ve something to say, you have three seconds.” Solas was amazed that he had listened. Either it was some Dalish upbringing to listen to your elders, or he just preferred not to be ordered around. Maybe both. 

“If it’s help with the Breach you seek, perhaps my people are the—“ 

“Nope.” Fiona blinked at his suddenly answer as well as his ‘I’m done with this shit’ look. Cassandra could’ve strangled him. 

“We need allies, Tarasyl; if you don’t—“ She started, growing tired of his attitude quickly. Tarasyl glared at her, just as done with her as she was of him. 

“This isn’t an offer of an alliance, Lady Punches Bears. This is fucking Hart shit. She didn’t even want to talk to you guys until you had enough power to call the Grand Clerics together. She doesn’t want to help, she wants us to help her. Give her power.” He turned to Grand Enchanter with damn near white flames in his eyes. “Oh look at me, I’m so much nicer and polite compared to them,” he mocked in a thick Orlesian accent, “I’m obviously a better choice; now just help me before I help you and I’ll consider using you as a shield.” 

Solas and Fiona both felt a prickle come across their skins as the Herald got more wound up. Even his brands began to faintly light up once more. Fiona swore she saw his eye color shift around the pupil, orange turning to red then purple. It wasn’t until they stopped at green that she was sure they changed colors. Curious. 

“Sorry, but I’m done being someone’s pet dog,” he barred his clenched fangs as he spat the word. He turned back around and started to stalk away. “You want to talk to her, go ahead, but I’m not going to play any of these assholes’ games.” 

He was probably going to live to regret that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...Many...Dread Wolf jokes...I just love being able to make them. XD
> 
> As for what happened with the Revered Mothers, Templars, and Fiona...well honestly I didn't think Tarasyl would stand for any of their shit. For one the Mothers erased history to suit their needs, and the Lord Seeker just was an ass. Fiona...well...Tarasyl doesn't take well to being used without a lot of gold involved.
> 
> Next chapter I'll hopefully have all his designs done for ya'll. Was trying to have them done this go around, but yeah no that didn't work out. Sorta fizzling out...

**Author's Note:**

> This one is styled a bit different from my other two stories. Mainly because Tarasyl was a side-character in each of the hero's lives. He's seen and done a lot. But he has never been in the spotlight, so I just thought it funny to have a thief (who's job is to stay hidden) be the Inquisitor/Herald (who's job description is the exact opposite of a thief's).
> 
> So you'll get little blurps from the past like in Chapter 2, or passing references.
> 
> As this continues, I will say that there are going to be dark spots (depression, dealing with past issues on top of new ones, etc) I'll do my best to warn you of them, but I hope you do not judge this work by the tags. I put them there so you know exactly why I rate this as explicit, and you know all the things that are working in the background. I promise to do my best to make it mostly better by the end of it all (mostly better because kisses and love/sex do not cure everything sadly...damn my realistic self).
> 
> This may or may not be finished depending on how it goes. I don't see a reason to continue something if no one really cares. I just share because I think someone might really need a sarcastic elf right now.
> 
> As always THANKS FOR READING!


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